


Less Than Survive

by extrmemely, keplcrs



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: ;) we miss ya buddy, Blood, Gen, Gore, Heelies, Implied Sexual Content, LGBTQ Character, Mental Illness, Multi, Murder, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Suicide, Underage Drinking, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, dont worry michael isnt vored, nothing explicit though it's all good, puns, rip mr. reyes, the major character death tag is for mr reyes, unrequited pining, vore jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 19:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11721087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extrmemely/pseuds/extrmemely, https://archiveofourown.org/users/keplcrs/pseuds/keplcrs
Summary: "And then he makes eye contact with Jeremy.Those zombies don’t stand a goddamn chance.Michael makes an executive decision to sing Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody at the top of his lungs."





	1. Apocalypse of the Damned

Michael used to think that he would kick-ass in the zombie apocalypse. Sure, he was just a geeky high school kid with an affinity for being a complete loser, but he knew things. How to hotwire a car, how to pick a lock, the top ten tv shows of the eighties ordered by how much diversity they featured. He planned escape routes, figured out the best places to hide, knew how to get to Jeremy’s house without taking main roads- which would undoubtedly be blocked by immense amounts of traffic; The whole shebang. The thing is, Michael also figured that he’d never need to use his ridiculous and convoluted survival methods.

 

He was wrong.

 

His hopes and dreams for the future were violently thrown from a three story building on a particular Monday, because Mondays fucking suck.

 

It’s not like he had asked to be asleep in class when the school was invaded by the undead. Chemistry was pretty shitty, and definitely not his pick for “final class before the actual apocalypse”. Not that he really had a say in the matter.

 

The screams of his classmates as they were brutally attacked by hoards of the undead wasn’t the best wakeup call he’d ever had. You see, rising from a relaxing midday nap only to be faced by a freaking cannibal who was dead set on making Michael their next meal was an experience he would not like to repeat.

 

Turns out, the ten worksheets Ms. Nadine had given them had come in handy, though.

 

He didn’t think that she had intended for him to tape them around his arms as protection from zombie bites, but he was grateful anyway. He’d like to believe that he looked photogenic and inspiring while he rolled up the sleeves to his iconic red hoodie and smacked a zombie in the face with the lab door. (Spoilers: he did not.)

 

Now, he’s sprinting through the halls of Middle Borough High School armed with a ring stand and ten pages on the periodic table of the elements. It’s less than ideal. All he knows is that he has to get to Jeremy so that they can ditch school to fight zombies. Funnily enough, this isn’t the first time. Well, this time they’re real zombies, and he’s kind of a real apocalypse-virgin, so it’s not the same-

 

And suddenly he’s face to face with one of them. It’s not like the video games, because video games don’t look like the kid in your calculus class, and they don’t smell like rotting flesh, and they definitely don’t make you want to puke up the sushi you had for lunch. Michael doesn’t even really know calculus kid, but he knows that he has a family and a home and that’s enough to make anyone sick.

 

The kid examines Michael with a predatory eye, dilated pupils and slow movements. The worst part is how ordinary he looks, apart from the eyes and the gross red bite mark on his shoulder that’s slowly oozing blood. Michael gags.

 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t really have time to throw up, so he’s stuck swinging the ring stand wildly and hoping that it hits recently undead calculus kid in the brain.

 

It does not. The zombie launches himself (itself?) at Michael, and pins him to the floor, crushing his bag beneath him.

 

Now, in another situation, having another guy on top of him would not be a problem for Michael. Weirdly enough, though, given that the other guy is trying to eat him (and not in  _ that _ way), he’s not down for it.

 

He struggles against the cheap linoleum tile, throwing his forearms out in front of him to stop the creature from getting a clear shot. The ring stand clatters to the floor beside him, just within arms reach. He briefly wonders where the rest of the students are.

 

The zombie bites into his arm. He winces, but throws his energy into grabbing for the discarded weapon. His fingers brush by the cool metal, and he slams the base of the ring stand into the side of the zombie’s head with everything he’s got. There’s a nauseating  _ squish _ as the stand makes contact with skin, then bone. It’s too soft, too easy. The thing that was once calculus kid rolls off of him with an indignant shriek, and Michael is able to stumble to his feet. It isn’t dead, well, it’s kind of dead but-

 

It makes a grab at Michael’s legs, and he thanks any and every god that he’s able to dart out of reach in time. The thing looks rather pathetic, blond hair matted with thick red blood, a gaping wound now torn into the side of his head. It reaches desperately towards Michael. He almost feels sorry for it.

 

Then, there’s another scream, and he’s reminded of the dire situation at hand.

He makes a run for it, turning down the English wing and slamming the double doors behind him.

 

Michael takes a moment to examine his arm, where the zombie bit him. Three of the chemistry worksheets are irreparably ruined, but his skin and hoodie are untouched. That’s one good thing that’s happened today. He pushes up his glasses. They’re smudged.

 

The English hallway is just as hauntingly empty as the last one, but there’s one distinct difference.

 

Instead of the usual bulletin boards and cheesy motivational posters, the walls are splattered with crimson, turning the dull beige into a canvas of death. There’s a body slumped against the door of room 108. Michael doesn’t want to know who it is.

 

The stench is almost unbearable. He’s reminded of the time his family decided to take a vacation to Hawaii. They had a nice hotel lined up, but their rooms wouldn’t be ready until the day after they flew in, so they booked a night at a two-star motel near the airport.

 

From the moment they opened the battered door to their room, Michael knew that this was the kind of place hookers got murdered in. The furniture was trashy, the appliances were at least thirty years old, but the worst part was the smell. It was rancid, strong enough to make his entire family book it for the car. They later discovered the source, a rat who had the good sense to crawl behind the dresser and die.

 

This is like a dumpster filled to the brim with dead rats, with a spritz of cheap perfume and a couple of rotten eggs.

 

He feels like throwing up again.

 

There are people yelling nearby, one of the English rooms for sure.  _ Jeremy might be in there. _

 

Michael isn’t exactly equipped for taking down any more zombies, but he’ll damn well try.

 

He has to try.

 

It’s not difficult to locate the source of the screaming, the door is wide open and there are bloodstains soaking into the linoleum underneath the doorway.

 

Being the stealthy, apocalypse extraordinaire that he is, Michael decides that walking directly in front of the room in full view of all of the people inside is a great idea.

 

He immediately regrets this decision when he realizes the full scope of the situation.

 

There are bodies covering about half of the floor space, scarlet pools forming beneath them. A wall of shitty blue plastic chairs protects the remaining body-less sector, defended by a group of about six or seven seniors. The ceiling light is shattered on the floor, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, aside from the space illuminated by one tiny rectangular window.

 

There are zombies everywhere. They’re hunched over bodies, tearing at them like animals. They’re creeping towards the makeshift chair fort, ready to capture their next victim. Michael comes to a sudden realization. This is not an invasion. It’s a buffet.

 

And then he makes eye contact with Jeremy.

 

Those zombies don’t stand a goddamn chance.

 

Michael makes an executive decision to sing Whitney Houston’s _ I Wanna Dance With Somebody _ at the top of his lungs.

 

“Dude what the fuck?!” That’s Rich, pausing his assault on a nearby zombie with a yardstick to question Michael’s life choices.

 

Every undead body in the room turns to face Michael, and he knows that his plan is working, for better or for worse. They let out various snarls and grunts before moving at alarming rates towards him.

 

“Get to the car!” He shouts at Jeremy before turning and running as fast as he can to the double doors that lead to the back field. He can hear the thumps of zombie footsteps behind him, leaving their previous prey in pursuit of Michael.

 

They’re faster than he expected, not the shambling pitiful excuses for villains that the media so often portrays. He supposes this is because they’re newly turned.

 

He turns a corner, the peeling blue paint of the double doors comes into view. Twenty feet away, which is about four times as far away from him as the nearest zombie. The adrenaline seeps into his veins, and his white- recently red colored sneakers hit the floor a little harder.

 

Ten feet, he’s almost there.

 

There’s a sudden tug from behind, one of the zombies is gripping the fabric of his gray backpack.  _ Shit _ .

 

The door is so close, taunting him. He could drop the bag- and risk losing his phone and laptop. It’s not like they’ll help him in the apocalypse, but his pictures are on there, memories. Selfies with Jeremy, his google document filled with redundant rambles, vents, and basically all of his feelings since the seventh grade. A bottle of Mountain Dew Red that he keeps on him at all times. Hasn’t he lost enough already?

 

And then he’s yanked back further, the zombie lets out a victorious snarl, and all bets are off.

 

He drops the bag and sprints.

 

Later, he’ll mourn the loss. Still, he can’t help the pang of longing as he pictures the backpack, lying solitary and trampled in the hallway.

 

He flings the doors open and veers right. There’s an old dumpster, the favorite hangout of the schools local stoners. Michael’s only ever gotten high in his basement, he wonders what it’d be like here.

 

He grips onto the plastic lid, feeling the green paint chip off beneath his feet as he hoists himself up. Ordinarily, he’d make a joke about being at home in the trash, but the zombies grasping at his legs kind of put a damper on the mood.

 

To his left lies the tin overhang above the door, and just beyond it is the roof. If he can get up there, he’ll be able to cross the entire school without encountering a single dead person. The problem is, there’s a gap between the overhang and the dumpster, and below it is a crowd of hungry zombies. Their arms are outstretched, as if they’re doing a terrifying version of the YMCA.

 

The overhang almost glitters in the sun, silver specks dancing across it, teasing him. If he doesn’t make this jump, he’s a goner. Then again, he’s dead if he stays.

 

And to think, he was worried about his hair this morning.

 

He takes a step back, avoiding the edge of the dumpster where the hands reach for him. Adjusting his glasses and pulling his trademark white headphones snug around his neck, (luckily they weren’t in his backpack, he doesn’t know what he would do if he lost them) Michael takes a deep breath.

 

He jumps.

 

For a moment, he’s airborne. Then, his feet hit the tin surface. He scrabbles for a handhold, his fingernails scraping against the metal like nails on a chalkboard. The ring stand slips from his grip and drops to the ground with a clang. His palms and fingers lock into place along the edge closest to the brick wall.

 

_ I made it _ .

 

Michael feels like cheering, doing a victory dance, maybe crying a little to celebrate this small victory.

 

But the clock is ticking, and he’s got the keys to the car. The car that Jeremy and Rich will be waiting by for him.

 

He grips the edge of the roof. It’s hot, burning his palms as he drags the rest of his body up. The green metal warms the soles of his shoes. There’s a strange surge of liberation in his chest, but it disappears rapidly once he registers his surroundings.

 

The area to his left is a battlefield, the grass drowning in blood and bodies. Some students are clamoring up the chain link fence, while zombie hoards wait impatiently below. The undead feast on fallen forms. He can almost hear the sickening crunches and squelches as they munch away. The student parking lot is on the opposite side of the roof, not yet within sight. He’s not sure he wants to see it. There’s no wind, the breeze is stagnant, giving the entire picture a strange surreal vibe.

 

Michael doesn’t cry, but his heart sinks and his shoulders slump. He’s been so focused on his own survival that he never really thought about the amount of loss. Kids, most with futures ahead of them, teachers with families waiting at home, parents who will never set eyes upon their child ever again. It’s unfair, it’s so unfair.

 

But he can’t do anything, so he settles for kicking a discarded basketball off of the roof. It drops, bouncing off of an unknown object with a resounding  _ whump _ .

 

The trek across the forest green metal of the rooftop is uneventful, almost boring. The sombre mood hangs over the entire area like a cumulonimbus cloud.

 

As he draws nearer to his destination, the sounds increase. There are people yelling, tires screeching. He thinks he hears two cars smash into each other, the scrape of metal on metal rising above the din.

 

There’s a ladder down the side of the school that happens to be conveniently close to the parking lot. He knows this from the time Rich launched Michael’s bag onto the roof in sophomore year, and Michael was forced to retrieve it with help from the school janitor. At the time, he was mad at Rich for further humiliating him in front of their peers. Now, he’s just glad to have a quick way off the roof.

 

The metal rungs are cold compared to the heat of the roof, and he glances around nervously before he steps foot onto the concrete ground.

 

_ The parking lot is going to be a mess _ .

 

He braces himself before peeking around the brick of the school, but judging by the noise, he already knows what’s coming.

 

He was right. It’s utter pandemonium out there, people screaming, crashed cars releasing steam into the atmosphere, and zombies, so many zombies. There’s a panic attack building in his chest but he pushes it down.  _ Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’tfreakout _ .

 

His beat up PT Cruiser is in its usual spot, right next to the exit. The only issue is the build up of cars, chalk full of people desperately trying to escape the turmoil. It’s not working out too well for them.

 

Only now is he beginning to regret the loss of his stupid ring stand.

 

He scrutinizes his surroundings, hunting for something, anything that he can use as a weapon. The chipped glass bottle dripping amber liquid? The stubby stick that crumbles when it’s picked up? Or, alternatively, the empty plastic cup that lay in about six different pieces by the wall, as if someone had had a spat with their slushie. One of the shards lies face up, adorned with a cartoon slushie possessing concerningly muscular arms. The label reads “burst your thirst”. He almost laughs.

 

He opts for the bottle, feeling his face twist into a disgusted look as the orange-brown liquid drains. It sputters onto the asphalt, running dark lines away from the brick wall. He’s suddenly thankful that it’s not blood.

 

When it’s finally empty, he takes another look around the corner, bottle in hand. The parking lot is in vaguely the same predicament, flesh eating zombies running rampant, people- kids running like chickens with their heads cut off. Some of them do have their heads cut off.

He feels his stomach churn for the nth time today. He stifles it.

 

The side of the parking lot closest to Michael runs along a shallow ditch, leading straight to the edge furthest from the school. If he can use the ditch to his advantage, he can turn and make a break for his car. He’s just got to avoid drawing any attention to himself.

 

He lowers himself into the muddy trench, wincing when the moisture soaks into his already ruined sneakers.  _ The stupid apocalypse keeps ruining my shit _ .

 

The mud is a dull brown that could almost be gray, and it clings to Michael’s feet as he attempts to move forward. Each step is accompanied by squelch, and though realistically, he knows he’s not being that loud, it seems deafening. Every few seconds he has to stop as zombies or other humans approach the ditch, just as a precaution. He’s come too far to be caught now-

 

“Hey! You!” There’s a feminine voice, and he looks up to see Madeline standing at the side of the ditch.

 

Her normally perfectly preened blonde hair is tangled and woven with dirt and sticks. There are mascara smudges all around her eyes, making her look like a rather tall raccoon. The worst part is the front of her lacy blue dress, now stained a deep purple with blood. Though it’s only day one, the apocalypse has definitely taken it’s toll.

 

She’s looking down upon him, both literally and figuratively, which makes his blood boil a little bit. She has no clue how to survive to apocalypse, so really,  _ he _ should be the annoyed one, right?

 

“Shhh!” Michael glares, holding a finger to his lips. “They’ll hear, and then we’ll both be dead.”

 

She lets out an indignant hmph, crossing her arms. “Do you have a way out? Can I come?”

 

“I’m kind of trying to be stealthy here,” he hisses, taking another step forward. He’s almost at the end of the trench.

 

“Je ne sais pas.”

 

“Wait-” He pauses, confused. “You’re actually french?”

 

“Oui! Tu as pensé que j'ai été menti?” She rolls her eyes, pushing her matted hair off of her face. Her pronunciation is horrible. Not just garden variety bad, but really truly awful. It’s like she forgot that french wasn’t exactly phonetically identical to english, and to read it like they were actual english words.

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“Ugh, whatever. Can you get me out of here or not?”

 

“Uh, I mean...” he trails off, glancing around when he hears another scream from nearby.

 

He can’t just abandon someone here, even if it is someone like Madeline. Michael, sighs, looking back up at her.

 

It all happens in about two split seconds.

 

There’s a figure behind Madeline, his face illuminated in the midday sun. Well, what’s left of his face. Someone has seemingly taken a car door, or a shovel to the poor guy’s nose, which is bloodied and definitely broken. There’s a steady stream of red pouring from his mouth, now dripping onto Madeline’s exposed shoulder. His right leg is twisted at an impossible angle, and he seems to be dragging his foot along for the ride, rather than actually using it.

 

He grabs Madeline, latching onto her like he’s going to lift her up like Simba in  _ The Lion King _ . And then he sinks his teeth into her collarbone.

 

She screams, and Michael thinks it’s the worst one he’s heard so far, though that might be because he’s right in front of her- and  _ holy shit she’s going to die _ . His mind is racing and time is speeding up, and he’s mostly thinking  _ get the fuck out of here _ but he can’t just leave her to get devoured by a bunch of sixteen year olds-

 

There’s an awful crunch, and her scream is now at a pitch that rivals Christine’s E flat in  _ Phantom of the Opera _ . She’s crying and there are more zombies coming their way, and he can’t move.

 

Michael has put up a lot of shit from life, but watching his classmate be dismembered in front of him is kind of where he draws the line. He shakes the stiffness from his frame, scrubbing at the tears that are currently leaking from his eyes, and prepares himself for what he’s about to do.

 

He could kill the zombie. Smash the bottle onto its head, watch it fall. He could grab Madeline by the arm, drag her along with him, hope that the zombies wouldn’t see them. It’s a gamble.

 

Or, he could leave her to get painfully murdered, and make a clean escape.

 

“I’m sorry.” He pauses to give one last look to Madeline, who is rather preoccupied with the three zombies who are currently fighting over who gets which intestine. Her screams have died down into pitiful whimpers.

 

He runs. Michael clambers up the side of the ditch and bolts for his car. The pavement is hot, sticky with god-knows-what (blood, he knows it’s blood), and the wind whistles in his ears as he narrowly avoids outstretched zombie arms.

 

Madeline’s rather dramatic death seems to be more attractive to the remaining zombies, though, as he encounters surprisingly little resistance. One zombie gets a bit too close. Michael responds by lobbing the bottle at its head.

 

He slams his hands on the car door, fumbling for the keys in his pocket. The moment he wrenches the door open he feels relief coursing through his veins, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 

“Michael!”

 

He turns to his right, spotting Christine, who waves her arms so violently that he thinks they might fly off. She’s accompanied by Rich, who holds a yardstick that’s been snapped in half, and Jeremy.  _ Jeremy made it out _ .

If Michael had time to thank whatever higher power that his best friend is safe, he would. 

 

Right now, though, he kind of wants to focus on keeping it that way.

 

The engine sputters to life, and he immediately steps on the gas. This sends him lurching over the curb and into the grass, which is now the only thing between him and open road.

 

Jeremy is the first to make it to the car. He pulls the passenger side open and launches himself onto the gray fabric of the seats. His face is completely red, whether from overexertion or something else, Michael can’t tell. Jeremy buckles himself in, and Michael feels a surge of affection towards his dorky friend, who follows car safety even in the apocalypse.

 

Christine and Rich follow him, the latter pausing to shove at an approaching zombie before slamming the door firmly shut. For a moment, all that can be heard is distant shrieks and each of them desperately trying to catch their breath.

 

“We’re alive,” Jeremy exhales, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself of it. Michael nods in response.

  
_ We’re alive _ .


	2. Mr. Reyes Eats The World's Largest Hot Pocket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: things get a lot darker in this chapter and it has some pretty intense shit (gore and a lot of character death oops) so if you're sensitive to that, it might be a good idea to stop here.

Michael’s driving was reckless at best, and that was on a good day. That specific Monday, however, was about as far from a ‘good day’ as Jeremy could imagine. It had its perks– the pop quiz that had been sprung on him less than an hour ago had been cancelled when his English teacher had turned into a zombie and attacked a few of her own students– but, overall, it had turned out to be a pretty heinous day. 

  


The PT Cruiser lurched over the sidewalk, and Jeremy was thrown forwards in his seat as any breath he’d pulled into his lungs following a mad dash out of the school was dispelled with a high-pitched shriek that, in all honesty, would have been much more understandable and far less embarrassing coming from Christine. Michael had the pedal to the floor, the car turning dangerously quickly in an attempt to evade suffering the same fate as the countless students scattered across the blood-soaked asphalt, dragged from mangled cars by their undead classmates. Jeremy risked a glance out the window, retching as he locked eyes with Mr. Reyes. Their former drama director was hunched over an indistinguishable mass of flesh a mere fifteen feet away, forearms and face painted a bright scarlet. His eyes met Jeremy’s from across the parking lot, filled with something malicious that sent a shudder through his spine, not dissimilar to the shocks he used to receive from the Squip. He’s reminded suddenly of rehearsals cut short by innumerable ‘hot pocket breaks’, stomach churning at the thought of potentially having to live off of hot pockets in the near future. He’d rather starve. 

  


Thankfully, Michael didn’t linger too long on the road, speeding away from the school and forcibly tearing Jeremy’s gaze away from Mr. Reyes. The way that he was driving, Michael had probably broken several laws already, but Jeremy wasn't sure that said laws still applied during the apocalypse. That is, if the police force hadn’t been turned already. Judging by the decimated state of the high school’s population, however, it was likely that the epidemic had already hit the rest of the town.

  


“Floor it, tall-ass!” Rich’s scream, too loud and too close in the enclosed space, alerted them to the shambling, disorganized troops of former Middle Borough High School students flooding into the streets behind them. Well, if the town had still been safe, it wouldn’t have been for much longer. Jeremy hadn’t thought it possible for the pedal to press any further into the car floor, but, following a glance out the rear windshield, Michael seemed eager to disprove him, jamming his foot against the gas pedal with a yell of frustration. 

  


“It’s not my fault that my car is a piece of shit!” 

  


The zombies weren’t gaining on them, per se, but the quicker ones weren't getting any further away. Jeremy glanced back periodically, picking out a few students that he recognized, wearing expressions that looked horrendously out of place on the faces of the track team’s captain and the marching band’s triangle player. Watching the mob shuffle along, Jeremy couldn’t help but wince. He’d known these people. Sure, maybe a few of them had tried to shove him into a locker in freshman year, but they were still people and now… now they were ambling down the road with the sole intention of tearing his limbs apart and devouring him. They were really taking bullying to a whole new level. 

  


The party of four had made it halfway to the intersection before there was another screech. Two, actually- one from the tires as Michael pulled over, and another from Chloe- or, perhaps, Brooke, he couldn’t really tell- betraying nothing but sheer terror as Michael threw himself across Jeremy (which wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary, nor an issue, if it hadn’t been allowing the vicious crowd behind them to inch steadily closer), and shoved at the door until it opened. The sidewalk next to them was occupied by the rest of the group- namely: Chloe, Brooke, Jenna, and Jake, who had undoubtedly left the campus for lunch and skipped the following period. They had missed the initial chaos, which, Jeremy thought, must have been nice, but their luck was heavily downplayed by the fact that they were then forced to brave the steadily growing horde.

  


“Where’s your car?” 

  


Chloe was the first to recover. 

  


“What the fuck is going on?” 

  


A rush of commotion followed as Michael began to explain, only to be cut off by a frantic Rich, who leaned into the front seat to be heard- right around the time that the first zombie reached the back of the PT Cruiser. No one had been audible then, all attempts at an explanation being abandoned in favor of screams. Jeremy had never been more thankful for Michael’s quick reflexes, sharpened by years of video games and rowdy siblings. They certainly proved helpful then, as he jerked back into his seat and sent the car into reverse at the first  _ thump _ of fists against the rear window. Their assailant was pushed back, landing on the pavement with a sickening crunch and effectively distracting the remainder of their undead pursuers, who, much to Jeremy’s disgust, wasted no time in turning on their comrade, tearing into it with an uncomfortable level of enthusiasm.

  


“Chloe, get your car and get the fuck away from the school! Meet us at- uh- shit, where can we go?” 

  


Suggestions were thrown out- the nearby Walmart, Michael’s basement, the shady, long-abandoned warehouse just off of the highway. Finally, at Jenna’s suggestion, they decided to meet up at the Taco Bell a few blocks away. It wasn’t ideal by any means, but they were desperate. 

  


“It’s closed for renovations,” she assured them, “but there’s a back entrance that we should be able to use. It’s probably empty and it’s our best bet right now.”

  


“Alright,” Jeremy agreed, looking around and receiving only nods of affirmation in response. “We’ll see you there.” There was a brief moment of silence, the worry that perhaps some of them wouldn’t make it undoubtedly running through everyone’s minds. 

  


Christine broke the silence, rolling down her window. “Be careful out there, alright? You have to go, while they’re distracted. We’ll see you at Taco Bell! Michael, we need to leave too.” 

  


They might not have worked out as a couple, but Jeremy was still infinitely grateful to have Christine with them. He had a feeling that they would need her seemingly boundless optimism.

  


Jenna repeated the directions one last time, drilling the address into their heads. Jeremy hesitated, before pulling his phone out of his backpack, typing the directions and address down before sending them to his dad in hopes that maybe, if the zombies hadn’t dismantled the cell towers yet, he’d be able to join them. Chloe tossed her keys to Jake, Christine’s window rolled back up, and the door was pulled shut with an almost ominous slam. 

  


They set off down the street once more with a worrying sputter of the engine that drew far too much unwanted attention from their undead companions. Michael sped through the intersection with a small faction of zombies trailing behind, the roads eerily empty. It made sense, when Jeremy thought about it. It wasn't as if the undead were intelligent enough to operate any vehicles– or, well, he hoped they weren't. That would make everything a hell of a lot more difficult. So far so good, though.

  


Apart from a few persistent stragglers that Jeremy saw lingering in the rearview mirror, the zombies seemed to have given up on their chase. Michael eased up on the gas, although his hands were still curled tightly around the steering wheel, scanning the surrounding area through smudged yet miraculously intact glasses. 

  


The interior of the car was filled with hushed murmurs as they scanned each other for injuries or bites, deeming everyone safe after a few moments. Jeremy and Rich had been lucky in their escape, largely aided by Michael’s rather effective distraction, although Rich’s yardstick had splintered after an unfortunate encounter with a surviving teacher that they’d mistaken for a zombie. (“It was an accident,” Rich had said, looking only vaguely apologetic as he dropped his weapon. “But I’m not going to lie, I’ve always wanted to hit him over the head with something.”)

  


Following Jenna’s directions to the letter, Michael had let the car slow to a less terrifying speed, driving in the general direction of the Taco Bell– until suddenly, he wasn’t. 

  


The car veered sharply to the right, skidding around the corner in the direction opposite of the designated rendezvous point. 

  


“Michael-? Where are you going?!” Jeremy’s question was answered mere moments later as Middle Borough Junior High came into view. Oh. Two of Michael’s siblings, twins by the names of James and Josie, whom Jeremy had known practically since their birth. He turned in his seat and was met with Christine’s wide-eyed gaze– she had a sister, he remembered, who had just started at the school that year. He knew, then, that they had arrived at the same conclusion. 

  


“Yeah. I’m gonna pick up James and Josie,” Michael confirmed their thoughts with a nod. “Christine, you should find Mei. I’ll drop them off at home and see if anyone there wants to come with us, and then we can go, I promise.” 

  


The field was a battle zone, bodies strewn haphazardly across the grass. Turned students stumbled through the carnage, chasing the few survivors or feasting on the already fallen. Middle-schoolers were nightmarish enough  _ without _ the insatiable urge to devour each other propelling their every move, thanks. 

  


Michael pulled over just outside the parking lot– there were significantly less cars in that lot, seeing as most thirteen year olds didn’t own cars, but there were still the beginnings of a scrap metal blockade obstructing the entrance as sixth and eighth graders alike tried to hijack their teachers’ cars in futile attempts to escape. 

  


A steady stream of students flooded through the front doors, many of them weighed down by backpacks and binders or blinded by tears. The majority of the zombies had taken to the field, but the number of predators in the parking lot was growing steadily as students were caught and turned, shrieks filling the air. It was reminiscent of the Middle Borough Junior High fun fair that the youngest of the Mell siblings had dragged him to, no more than three weeks before– that is, full of screaming children, more than a few of them in tears by the end of the night. 

  


(He’d admitted later on that it hadn’t been that bad. He would have agreed to go to a thousand middle school fairs, if James and Josie had asked him to. Besides, Michael had suffered through the night with him.)

  


Michael rolled the windows down and pulled himself out of the car, balancing precariously on the window ledge. Jeremy leaned forward in his seat and curled a hand into the back of Michael’s hoodie, just in case. He peered through the front windshield, searching for even a glimpse of the familiar dark hair and tan skin. 

  


Rich spotted them first, two students lugging instruments-turned-weapons across the pavement. They noticed the PT Cruiser a split second later– they couldn't have missed it, honestly, what with the fact that Michael , wearing his signature bright red hoodie, was halfway out the window. They picked their way through the parking lot, dancing over corpses as they made their way towards the car. Jeremy saw, even from such a distance, the way that James’ eyes lit up, flooding with relief. 

  


And then time seemed to slow down, the following minutes playing out around Jeremy in horrifying detail. 

  


By some sick twist of fate, Jeremy had watched the hope drain from James’ face as he was jerked backwards, one had shooting out to catch the loose corner of Josie’s cardigan. His tiny piccolo case did absolutely nothing to fend off the zombie behind him. The clasp came undone and there was a flash of silver as the instrument rolled away, lying uselessly on the dirt several feet away from James. The zombie had one already bloody hand fisted in the fabric of his jacket, a surprising amount of strength keeping him in place. 

  


James had always been the quieter of the two. He wasn’t  _ quiet _ , exactly, but he’d definitely been just a bit more soft-spoken than Josie. There was nothing quiet about his scream, though– or perhaps that had come from Michael, who would have fallen from his perch if not for the two extra pairs of hands that reached out to pull him back by his sweater as he watched the zombie sink it’s teeth into one of James’ flailing arms. 

  


Jeremy was able to pinpoint every emotion that passed across James’ face– pain, mostly, and regret– before his own vision blurred. He knew he wouldn’t make it. They all knew it. 

  


It had been Josie who had screamed next, crying out and tearing herself away with obvious despair. Her tuba, which had done her quite a lot of good in terms of defense up until that point, was abandoned as she stumbled towards the car. A piece of her sweater- an orange cardigan, her absolute favorite piece of clothing, almost as glaringly flamboyant as Michael’s red hoodie- was torn off and left in James’ outstretched hand. He made no move to chase her.

  


That was it. The zombies surrounded James, and Rich had to pull Michael back into his seat before he launched himself out of the window towards the crowd, unarmed and sobbing. Jeremy had thrown open his door as Josie approached, letting her clamber into the front seat with him, where she immediately curled around Jeremy, tear-stained face turned away from the windows.

  


There was blood on her left wrist, staining the sleeve of her cardigan and diluted by tears as she dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. Jeremy couldn't tell where the blood was from or whose it was. It didn’t matter, anyway. She was still alive. The inspection of her injuries could wait. 

  


Josie was a wreck. 

  


Although, to be fair, so was Michael, and Jeremy was well on his way towards it. 

  


For a moment, the only sounds in the car were sniffles and sobs. 

  


Josie and James had learned a great deal about codependency from Michael and Jeremy. Their closeness had easily rivalled that of the two high-school seniors. The four of them as a group were fairly tight-knit as well– a byproduct of Michael’s parents working constantly, having to support five children, two of whom were in some sort of post-secondary institution. 

  


Jeremy could remember countless days spent in Michael’s basement, seated in a small circle and surrounded by snacks as Michael taught James how to play songs on the guitar, letting Jeremy and Josie sing along once he’d gotten the hang of it. 

  


From the seat behind them, looking only barely more put-together than the three of them, Rich spoke up and offered to take the wheel. Michael didn’t seem to hear him. His horrified gaze was glued to the scene in front of them, James’ figure blocked from their view by a number of the undead. 

  


“Kuya?” 

  


Josie pulled him out of his trance. He jolted at the sound of her voice, and dragged a sleeve across his face, turning in his seat. Anyone could see that, by that point, he was simply trying to pull himself together for Josie’s sake. 

  


“Sorry.” There was a beat of silence. “Jo, are you okay?” 

  


She nodded. Not even a full second later, she shook her head. Jeremy had known her for almost all of her thirteen years of life, and never before had he seen her speechless. There really were no words for the situation, though. 

  


He let Josie seat herself in the space between him and Michael, the two of them talking in hushed voices. Jeremy heard whispers of Tagalog, spoken too rapidly for him to understand. 

  


Christine tapped his shoulder, leaning into the front seat, and Jeremy felt a surge of guilt as he realized that she still hadn’t found her own sister. He hadn’t been as close to Mei as he had been with James and Josie, but that was no excuse. Christine didn’t seem to care too much about Jeremy’s preoccupation with the twins, though. 

  


“Where is she? I haven’t seen her come out of the front, but I swear she wasn’t in the field.” Her voice was laced with worry, eyes not meeting Jeremy’s as she continued to search the dwindling survivors around them. 

  


“We’ll find her, Christine. Don’t worry.” The reassurance was a bit hollow– Jeremy  _ wasn’t _ sure that they’d find her, or what would await them if they did find her. The tension in Christine’s shoulders appeared to ease slightly at the words, though. It was better than the silence or the screaming from a few minutes ago, he supposed. 

  


The zombies in front of them began to turn their gazes to the PT Cruiser. They’ve finished with James, apparently, and were eager to move on to fresh meat. Jeremy felt sick.

  


“Michael,” he mumbled, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the mob that has started to shuffle towards them. He caught a glimpse of- well, of something that might have once been Michael’s younger brother, and he screwed his eyes shut, tears threatening to spill. The murmurs beside him paused. “I’m so sorry but we need to find Mei and get out of here.” 

  


Josie retreated into the backseat, giving Michael the space to drive as recklessly as he usually did. “She made it out.” Christine’s head turned towards her so quickly that Jeremy feared she’d get whiplash. “She left at lunch,” Josie explained. “Someone picked her up before they first arrived.” 

  


The worry didn’t completely leave Christine’s face, but it did seem to dissipate slightly. She thanked Josie quietly, wrapping an arm around the younger girl’s shoulders. 

  


Michael started the car, and Jeremy caught the grief that crossed his face as he spotted the zombies’ leftovers. It described his own feelings pretty well, actually– only about three times worse, and only thinly masked by the desire to put up a strong front for Josie. 

  


(It wasn't very convincing, but no one said anything about it.) 

  


Impulsively– or maybe it had been intentional, given the situation- Michael drove the car forward, crushing several undead middle-schoolers beneath the tires. He shifted into reverse, then, and pulled out of his makeshift parking spot.

  


They were all silent for a few moments, the quiet only ever being broken by the typical sounds that accompanied crying. No one had been prepared for that experience. It had made everything so much more  _ real _ . Up until that point, a small part of Jeremy had been hoping that maybe he’d wake up in Michael’s basement, shaken awake by James after an unsuccessful attempt at staying up all night and finishing Apocalypse of the Damned. 

  


Obviously, that was not going to happen.

  


The silence only grew until it was unbearable, and Jeremy couldn’t handle it anymore. His phone was half-dead already, but he dug for the aux cord anyways, putting his music on shuffle. (It was a weird collection of show tunes he’d discovered through Christine, more modern pop music that Rich and Jake had downloaded for him, and 80s music that Michael had recommended to him, but at least it would have something for everyone.) 

  


Michael turned up the volume and looked over at Jeremy, keeping his voice low when he spoke. 

  


“She got bit.”

  


“What?” Jeremy fought the urge to glance back. He lost. 

  


Josie was talking to Rich, who looked like he was trying to cheer her up with a shitty, probably questionable joke. The humor didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Josie hadn’t laughed, but she had cracked an almost-smile, messing with her bloodied sleeve, and Rich seemed triumphant. 

  


“Be quiet, I don’t think she’s realized it herself. Her left hand, it’s bleeding. It’s not that noticable, but I swear, there are tooth marks. She got bit.” Michael sighed, spinning in his seat to look at each of his passengers in turn. His gaze returned to Jeremy, meeting his eyes briefly before his focus was back on the road ahead. 

  


Jeremy frowned, looking back at Josie once more. She showed no trace of having been bit, apart from the injury itself. 

  


“But she’s still alive.”  

  


“I know.”

  


They lapsed back into silence, this one more contemplative than the previous one had been. 

  


“Maybe it’s from before the invasion?” Jeremy was grasping at straws, and they both knew it. Michael shot him a skeptical glance. They were both well aware of the fact that the chances of that were slim. 

  


Michael humored him anyways,the car slowing as he approached his street, scanning the nearby houses. “Maybe.” 

  


They were interrupted by a flash of orange, Josie’s small frame pushing itself into the space between the seats and effectively shutting the both of them up. She was pointing through the front windshield, waving frantically at a figure in Michael’s driveway, and it took Jeremy a moment to recognize him. 

  


“Peter!” Jeremy had never been more relieved to see the older man, the oldest of Michael’s many siblings. (He had four, which really wasn’t terrible, especially considering his mother’s thirteen siblings, but it was a lot to Jeremy, coming from a house occupied by only him and his dad.)

  


The car skidded to a stop halfway up the driveway, and Michael vaulted out of his seat before Jeremy had even registered that they’d stopped. 

  


“Peter, thank god you’re home!” Evidently startled by the sudden appearance of Michael and his PT Cruiser in all of its dented, scratched and probably bloodstained glory, Peter whirled on them, a ragged backpack nearly slipping off of his shoulder. There was a gun in his hands. Jeremy couldn't tell if it was loaded, but judging by Peter’s expression, it was. 

  


Michael froze, throwing himself in front of Josie. Jeremy saw the tension in his muscles, and he knew that Michael would have taken the bullet without a moment’s hesitation, if Peter had taken the shot. Panic flashed across Peter’s face, before the recognition set in. He lowered the gun. 

  


Michael spoke hesitantly. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

  


“Who else is in the car?” 

  


Michael stood stock-still in the centre of the driveway, feet planted on the asphalt. Jeremy unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed his door open, joining Michael. He gagged at the stench. It had been bad at the school, but he guessed that it had only gotten worse as more and more people had died. 

  


The gun was turned on him, briefly, and he felt a rush of terror as Michael moved in front of him, too, as he had for Josie and Jeremy was, for the first time since the beginning of the apocalypse, hit with the near-paralyzing realization that he could lose Michael so irreversibly that, unlike the Squip incident, no amount of apologies and tear-filled discussions (arguments) about their problems would bring him back. And then he gun was back at Peter’s side, and Jeremy leaned against Michael in an attempt to reassure both of them, and the tension in Michael’s shoulders eased enough for him to formulate a response. 

  


“Rich and Christine are in the backseat, and that’s all. It’s just the five of us, right now.” 

  


“Five?” Peter looked at Josie, clinging to the hem of his shirt, Michael and Jeremy, huddled together in front of him, and the empty space beside Jeremy. For a few agonizing seconds, they all stood still, in dead silence. “James..” 

  


“I’m sorry.” Michael’s voice cracked, and he looked like he was about to cry again. “He got bit, and we– we couldn’t do anything.” Peter inhaled sharply, but didn’t say anything, so Michael continued to talk, rushing his sentences in a way that Jeremy recognized as an attempt to say everything he wanted to say before he broke into tears. “We’re meeting up with a few others at a Taco Bell, though, and you should come with us! Safety in numbers, right? Josie’s going to need someone, and I can’t always be there and neither can Jer, and I know you can’t either, which is why we can take turns-” 

  


“No.” Peter cut him off, voice clipped. He wasn’t looking at Michael anymore, his eyes trained on Josie. More specifically, they were trained on her wrist, caught in his fist. “She’s bleeding.” 

  


Jeremy felt his blood run cold. Josie looked confused, unable to give them any more information about the origin of the damage, but she didn’t protest when Peter examined her arm. 

  


He exchanged a look with Michael, who had paled at Peter’s words and began to stumbled over an explanation. “She- we don’t know where it’s from, it- she might be safe, she’s still alive.” 

  


It was unconvincing, to say the least.

  


“That kind of thinking is going to get you killed,” Peter scoffed, his voice raised to be heard over Michael's stammered excuses. “It’s going to get us all killed.”

  


“Well, what do you suggest we do?”

  


“What we have to.”

  


The confusion in Josie’s face was quickly replaced with fear, the implications of the conversation dawning on her. She was clinging to the hem of Peter’s shirt, the fabric clenched tightly in her fist. Jeremy might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Peter’s grip tighten around the gun in his hand. 

  


“I don’t want to be one of those- those things!” Her voice was shrill, eyes wide and shimmering with fresh tears. “I don’t want to hurt people like that.” 

  


No doubt, she was thinking about James.

  


Peter and Michael’s gazes shifted to her. Jeremy definitely saw Peter’s fingers curl more securely around the gun. He froze.

  


He knew that desperate times often called for desperate measures, but there was no way that Peter could kill his own sister.

  


Michael jumped to reassure her with barely a glance to his older brother. “It’s okay, Jo, we’ll figure something out, you’re going to be okay. You won’t have to turn into anything, I promise.” 

  


“We’re not going to let you become a zombie, Josie.” Three pairs of eyes snapped up to look at Peter, wrapping his arm around Josie’s shoulders. Jeremy breathed out a sigh of relief. Peter could save her. Or, at least, Jeremy assumed as much, given the top marks that he knew Peter had always gotten in biology and the discussions he’d overheard between Michael and Peter following the screening of some documentary that had put Jeremy to sleep.

  


It was possible that he was just being paranoid. He had the right to be, after the afternoon’s events. The day wasn’t even close to being over yet. 

  


And then his heart plummeted.

  


It happened quickly. Far too quickly. 

  


Peter had been holding her, comforting her with a one-armed side hug. Not a full second later, he’d lifted the gun to Josie’s temple and pulled the trigger. She hadn’t had time to react. 

  


Jeremy wondered if he’d ever been trying to comfort her at all.

  


The gun fell to the pavement. Josie had crumpled to the ground, no longer supported by Peter. He stood a few steps behind her, the hem of his shirt crumpled where she had previously had it locked in her fist. His expression was unreadable. Jeremy wasn't sure if that was because Peter intended for it to be so or if it was because his own vision was blurred by tears.

  


The noise had hit Jeremy next. It was deafening. The gunshot alone was enough to make his ears hurt, but Michael’s scream from beside him felt like a punch to the gut, multiplied by a thousandfold. Michael wasn’t beside him for much longer, though. Jeremy hadn't expected him to move, but suddenly, Michael had lurched forward, landing on his knees beside Josie. 

  


Somewhere around him, Jeremy heard murmurs of “No,” chanted like a mantra, or some sort of spell that could bring Josie back. Belatedly, he realized that the murmurs were coming from himself. They weren't working. 

  


There was more screaming, between a hardly-understandable Michael and Peter. It took Jeremy a second to really hear their words. They sounded far away and distant, as if they were on the other side of a glass tank. And then their voices came into focus, and Jeremy sort of wished that he could go back to the muted noise. 

  


“What the fuck was that?!” 

  


“I did what I had to do!” Peter sounded as if he was speaking through gritted teeth, voice breaking mid-sentence. 

  


Michael responded with something incoherent, hands cupped gently around Josie’s face. They were already stained with blood, enough of it that the whole scene looked like something out of a low-budget horror film. 

  


“It was better this way,” Peter protested. If he was crying, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it– Jeremy could hear the tremor in his voice, but it was steadier than Michael’s mix of sobbing and screaming. “She doesn't deserve to live in a world like this, where people cannibalize their husbands and kids eat each other for the hell of it!”

  


“That’s no reason to  _ kill  _ her!” 

  


“I’m trying to protect you, Michael! She was going to kill all of us and none of you were going to do it, so I took matters into my own hands.” 

  


Michael looked absolutely livid. 

  


“What about Josie? Why protect me instead at the cost of her  _ life _ ?” He cut off Peter’s excuses, rambling on with growing distress. Jeremy had joined him next to Josie. He worked her orange hair elastic loose and pulled it onto his own wrist, running his hand through her dark hair and gently trying to untangle it before the blood dried. “Now what? Are you going to come along and pick off all of my friends as they get injured because they pose some sort of danger to me?” 

  


Peter offered no protest to Michael’s words. “I was doing the right thing,” he protested, one hand gesturing wildly as he spoke. It was a habit that Jeremy recognized, something that Michael and James did. 

  


“The right thing? You think that was the  _ right _ thing?” He struggled to feet, wiping his hands on his jeans. Muted red bloomed across the fabric in the shape of his handprint. If he squinted, Jeremy thought he could see unshed tears glimmering on Michael’s eyelashes, moments before they spilled. 

  


“She was going to turn into a zombie. You have to think rationally about this.”

  


“In what world is killing Jo the right thing to do?” He surged forward, shoving at Peter. The older man hardly flinched, expression hardening despite the tear tracks crossing his cheeks and the telltale glimmering of unshed ones in his eyes. “She was a kid, Peter! She was only thirteen, she wasn’t going to hurt us, she had a future-”

  


“What kind of future would it have been? Michael, wake the fuck up! Half of the city has turned into _zombies_. They’re killing us, and each other, and she doesn’t deserve to suffer through that. She doesn’t deserve to come home and see her family torn apart by the fucking apocalypse! To- to come home and see nothing but blood, everywhere, all over the walls and the furniture and her mother, rabid and covered in the stuff. All over her arms and her shirt and her face- blood.” He shoved his way past Michael, leaning down to snatch the gun off of the driveway, a harsh edge creeping into his voice. “And do you know where she’d see Dad? Nowhere, because there was _nothing left_. Nothing recognizable, that is.” He continued walking, away from Michael on the driveway and the now-abandoned house that Jeremy had spent half of his life in.  “Obviously, we’re not on the same page when it comes to surviving this.”

  


“Peter, wait-” It was Michael’s turn to be cut off as Peter simply spoke over him, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

  


“But, hey, you played that video game about zombies, right? You know all about what it takes to survive. What do you need me for? Wait. You don’t, because you already have all of the knowledge that you need! So why don’t you go hole up in some building with your friends and keep pretending that you’re all going to make it out of this alive?” The mocking tone stopped there, seriousness taking its place. “And I’ll go off on my own, killing zombies and  _ actually _ surviving, and then we’ll see who really has what it takes.” 

  


Michael was following him, then, passing Jeremy in a frantic attempt to catch Peter’s sleeve, panic creeping into his voice. “Nonono  _ wait _ , Peter, you can’t leave, please.” 

  


“I don’t want to spend the last few days of my life arguing with my little brother. You and your naivety are going to get people killed, whether you’re aware of it or not, and I don’t want to be one of those casualties. I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m better off on my own.” 

  


Jeremy wondered what they looked like from an outside perspective- himself, frozen in place, still crouched by Josie, and Michael, pleading with his brother in a futile attempt to make him stay. 

  


Peter jerked his arm out of Michael’s loose grip. He shoved him back towards Jeremy and Josie, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

  


Jeremy could only watch as he left, footsteps silent against the pavement as he walked away. 

  


Michael was in hysterics, remaining where he stood until Peter disappeared from view and he stumbled back to Jeremy, kneeling by Josie’s side. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes, which did nothing to stop the flow of tears, and gave a hollow laugh. “Well, Jeremy, buddy, now you know where my dependency issues come from.” 

  


Jeremy pulled him into a wordless hug, careful to keep his bloody hands off of Michael’s hoodie. Michael slumped against him, his face buried in the shoulder of Jeremy’s cardigan, and he shook as Jeremy held him. 

  


They stayed like that for a while, until Michael pulled away to look at Josie, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Jeremy kept his place next to Michael, whose head didn’t leave his shoulder, and they sat together in front of Josie as if she had simply fallen asleep and they were waiting for her to wake up. 

  


He didn’t know how much time had passed before they were finally interrupted, but eventually, Christine’s shadow fell over the three of them. Jeremy tilted his head back to look up at her, taking in her face, cheeks wet with tears and dress bloodied, and Rich behind her, looking like he’d also been crying. Jeremy couldn’t blame him.

  


“I’m so sorry, but we have to go. The others are waiting for us. Michael, Rich can grab a bag for you, since you don’t have your backpack.” She paused, turning to speak to Rich, and Jeremy couldn’t have wished for a better companion at that very moment. 

  


Christine’s voice wavered slightly, but she continued to instruct them, doling out orders and making sure everyone was okay- as okay as they could get, given the situation. Her words washed over Jeremy, who found himself eager to try and let go of his thoughts and do as told, clambering into the backseat of the PT Cruiser with Michael, the two of them still pressed against each other. 

  


Christine situated herself in the driver’s seat, and Rich returned with a bag of stuff for Michael. Jeremy shuffled over to make room, letting Rich shove all of their backpacks into the backseat with Jeremy and Michael before claiming the passenger seat. The four backpacks hadn’t really taken up very much space, but Michael and Jeremy sat so close that they could have crammed at least two suitcases into the remaining space. 

  


It took Christine a moment to start up the car, Jeremy’s music drifting from the speakers again. His phone wasn’t going to last much longer, but it was nice to have something drowning out the crying. 

  


That is, until the song and it’s lyrics registered and he felt new tears flood down his face. ‘We Are Family’ was on his playlist at Michael’s suggestion, partially because Michael claimed that it was a good song and partially because it had been the song he had listened to constantly when his mother had left and he’d needed the reminder that he still had a family in both his dad and the Mells. 

  


(The knowledge that four of the Mells were already dead, mere hours into the apocalypse, only made him cry harder.)

  


Rich picked up Jeremy’s phone and changed the song, skipping through songs that only reminded him of everything they’d already lost. 

  


Jeremy stopped listening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> (plot twist: the shriek that jeremy thought was brooke or chloe was actually jake.)
> 
> translation (?): 'kuya' is a tagalog honorific typically used for like. an older brother. so.


	3. Tragedy at Taco Bell

If there’s one thing Michael has never pictured himself doing, it’s crying on a bag of expired taco shells while covered in his sister’s blood.

 

Okay, well, he’s not quite sure how he still has any more tears, given that he’s pretty much been sobbing for the last four hours. The taco shells, after a while under Michael’s weight, can’t really be counted as taco shells anymore, and blood clings only to his palms and fingertips at this point. Cut him some slack, he’s pretty much living out his worst nightmare.

 

Jeremy is sitting on the floor beside him, occasionally pausing to hand Michael a tissue, “tissue” being a loose term, as it’s actually a collection of Taco Bell napkins.

 

Jeremy has barely said a word since they arrived at the restaurant, ignoring the others in favor of letting Christine do the talking. To be fair, Christine has no qualms about talking, and _ is _ rather adept at it.

 

_ “What took you guys so long?” Chloe demands. The PT cruiser, in all its blood-smeared glory has just barely pulled into the Taco Bell parking lot. _

 

_ Chloe is flanked by Brooke and Jake, all of them appearing rather shaken, but still infinitely better than Michael, Jeremy, Rich, or Christine. Jenna is inside, pasting miscellaneous posters onto the floor length windows. _

 

_ Christine and Rich exit the car, the latter rushing forward to greet Jake with a lackluster high-five. Every movement they make is halfhearted, a drastic contrast to the ones who managed to avoid Michael’s family drama, who seem jittery and apprehensive. Jeremy visibly jumps when they slam the car doors. _

 

_ “I’ll tell you guys when we get inside,” Christine responds, sounding less like a high school senior and more like a legitimate adult. “Brooke, can you help Jer and Michael with the bags?” _

 

_ He can see her nod, drawing nearer to the cruiser, ready to unload baggage with two perfectly mentally well dudes. _

 

_ The thing is, Jeremy and Michael are very much not fetching the backpacks from inside the car. Michael happens to be hunched in the backseat, trying to make himself as small as possible, and Jeremy is by his side, staring rather determinedly at nothing. _

 

_ The door swings open, and dull, grey light floods in. There’s a pause as Brooke takes in the scene. Nobody moves. _

 

_ “Everything okay Mike?”  She’s heartbreakingly sweet. He thinks of Josie. _

 

_ “Yeah,” he breathes. There’s a tremor in his voice. He’s sure she’ll call him out for his obvious lie. “Just saw some shit.” Michael laughs. It’s hollow. _

 

_ Then, he bursts into tears. Again. _

 

_ Jeremy’s head snaps towards Brooke, who seems considerably surprised by Michael’s meltdown. _

 

_ He can’t see Jeremy’s face, but he instinctively knows that he’s glaring. (The main clue is Brooke looking like a kicked puppy, if he’s being honest.) _

 

_ “Oh my god, I am so sorry-” Brooke sputters. She’s talking as if she has exactly five seconds to say something before Michael spontaneously combusts. “Do you want to come inside? I’ll get all the bags.” _

 

That’s how he ends up shut away in a Taco Bell storeroom, chilling with his very best bud while sobbing over his sister’s death. And his mother’s, and father’s, and brother’s.

 

The others are giving Michael a wide berth, mostly preoccupied by zombie proofing the building. He’s glad, he’s not sure he really wants to be around anyone right now. Except Jeremy. Jeremy can stay, even if he’s not exactly receptive to anything Michael does at this point.

 

He sniffles into yet another napkin, the plastic bag of food crinkling as he moves. Michael has reduced just about every taco shell in the package to mere dust.

 

The atmosphere is heavy, dragged down by the weight of all they’ve witnessed. Michael wishes he had something to say, anything. Jeremy is transfixed by a blemish on the wall. He refuses to look at Michael.

 

Michael isn’t sure he’d like to look at himself either. His breathing slows.

 

For a moment, he thinks he’s just about finished with his meltdown. Then, he sees a poster of little cartoon jazz quartet stuck to the wall haphazardly, the instruments painted an obnoxious shade of yellow. He’s reminded of James and Josie and their mediocre grade eight band. There’s a fresh wave of tears.

 

“God, I wish I could stop crying,” he mumbles a minute or two later, using the tear-soaked napkin to wipe blood off of his hands. His entire body is shaking, and he can barely see out of his smudged glasses.

 

Jeremy reaches out to take the ruined napkin out of Michael’s hands. Without meeting Michael’s eyes, he washes the rest of the red from the other boy’s palms intently, as if it’s the only thing that matters. If his hands linger a bit too long, neither of them say anything.

 

Jeremy’s been crying too, judging by his red-rimmed eyes and trembling fingers. He doesn’t blame him, Josie and James we’re nearly as much his best friend’s siblings as they were Michael’s.

 

For what seems like forever, they stay locked into place, inexplicably held by some kind of grief-freeze-ray. Their hands are loosely intertwined, perched as if they’re going to fall away at any moment.

 

He stops thinking of his family. Presses the grief down, like he’s trying to shut an overpacked suitcase that just won’t close. Something else overflows to take its place.

 

“I let her die,” Michael says, shattering the almost tangible silence. “One of them got her, Madeline. Just one. I could’ve killed it.”

 

Jeremy doesn’t look up. God, he just wants his friend to see him.

 

“I left her, made an easy escape. She was screaming. They tore her apart.” His grip on Jeremy’s hands tightens.

 

“But I got out. Saved our friends. Saved  _ you _ . Do the means justify the ends, Jeremy?”

 

The other boy says nothing. Michael laughs, but it’s empty.

 

“Hey, Michael…” That’s Christine standing in the doorway. She’s still in her torn and bloodied gingham dress, and her hair looks like prime real-estate for birds. Probably waterfront property, if the amount of crying everyone has done today is anything to go by. “How’re you doing?”

 

Michael shrugs as nonchalantly as he can, pulling his hands away from Jeremy’s and dragging himself to his feet. He wobbles, and his friend instinctively shoots up to steady him. Michael bats away Jeremy’s hands.

 

“I’m fine Jer,  _ chill _ .” He mutters, taking another shaky step towards Christine. Jeremy recoils as if he’s been burned.

 

“We’re making plans right now, if you two want to join us?”

 

Michael nods a bit too enthusiastically. He needs to do something other than cry.

 

Christine gives them a lopsided smile before shuffling down the hall. A few hours ago, she would’ve had a skip in her step.

 

Michael glances back at Jeremy, who’s fiddling with the cuffs of his worn blue cardigan. “Let’s go.”

 

Jeremy opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but seems to decide otherwise.

 

For a moment, they both stand still.

 

“Hey,” Michael says finally, grabbing the other boy’s wrist and tugging him towards the door. “They’re probably making really riveting conversation about vore or something, we don't want to miss it.”

 

“Yeah?” Jeremy whispers, his eyes still glued to the tile.

 

Michael smiles softly. “Yeah, we’d better get going.”

 

His friend complies as Michael leads him down the yellow-tinted hallway towards the front counter, albeit rather reluctantly. The lighting above flickers every few seconds, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before it buzzes out completely. He can almost hear his friends’ voices, undoubtedly coming from the seating area of the restaurant.

 

They pass through the kitchen in all of its half-finished glory. Cardboard boxes and plastic coverings litter the floor, accompanied by partially installed silver appliances. “Good to know that we can deep-fry our stale taco shells, huh?”

 

“Oh-uh, I-yeah,” Jeremy sputters, still sniffling.

 

“We’re gonna be okay,” Michael muses, drawing Jeremy closer to him as he picks his way around the debris. He’s still wearing his ruined white sneakers. He should probably fix that.

 

Jeremy lets out a noise that sounds like a mixture of exhaling and coughing, shoving one of his hands into his pocket. “This is so messed up.”

 

“Mhm.” He catches a glimpse of the vibrant purple and orange colors that decorate the restaurant. He can hear Christine talking, something about a mall...

 

“Not-not the zombies. No, yes the zombies but also-” Jeremy sighs, wrenching his wrist from Michael’s grip. “You shouldn’t be comforting me.”

 

Michael turns around to look at his friend, taking in his expression.

Jeremy’s posture is awful, like he’s trying to fold in on himself. He’s frowning, but he looks more confused than angry. To be fair, confusion is kind of embedded into his personality at this point, so it’s nothing new. The thing that’s weird is the way he’s looking at Michael, like he’s trying to pity him and ask him a question simultaneously.

 

“Why not?”

 

His friend stares at him for what seems like an eternity. He’s curious, Michael realizes, Jeremy’s concerned and terrified, but he’s mostly intrigued. By what, Michael’s not quite sure. “I just- nevermind.”

 

Michael almost reaches for Jeremy’s hand again, but stops himself. Note: the apocalypse, right after your family’s been killed- not the best time to let your gay crush get the best of you.  _ Fuck, he doesn’t want to think about his family _ .

 

It’s started to take physical effort to keep from sobbing.  _ Repress _ .

 

“Dude, it’s fine. Two player game, right? We’ve got each other.” Michael’s voice cracks, just like it did when he was fifteen and trying to hit the high note in Bohemian Rhapsody.

 

Jeremy eyes him suspiciously. “I- yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 

“Let’s go kill some frickin’ zombies.”

 

Their friends are gathered around a table, one of the large orange and purple booths in the center of the room. Most of them are seated at the banquette, aside from Rich, who’s claimed the tallest barstool possible, and Christine, who’s determinedly pacing a hole into the off-white linoleum.

 

The windows are plastered with various papers, concealing them from the outside world. Unfortunately, this leaves the room mostly lit by the still flickering pendant lights. Their backpacks and other bags are piled behind the front counter, untouched. It’s rather apocalypse-appropriate.

 

The second the pair enter the main room, the conversation skids to a halt. All eyes are suddenly super-glued to Michael.

 

He didn’t think that he could get any more uncomfortable, but it appears that he was wrong. “Uh… ‘sup?”

 

“Mike- buddy,” Jake sputters, giving him a halfhearted grin. Michael doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jake, the human embodiment of suave, this nervous before.

 

“You gonna go all Niagara Falls on us again?” Chloe remarks. Her words have no bite to them. Christine stops in her tracks, leans over the table, and smacks her on the arm.

 

“So… anyone want to tell us what’s going down?”

 

Christine straightens up, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Okay so like, we’ve taken stock of our inventory and stuff right? And we’re thinking that maybe it might be a good idea to go out on a supply run, because I-we, think that’s what people usually do in the apocalypse? Also all we have here are stale taco shells and that’s really not ideal. Y’know, and if we get to stores before people, then the good things, like food and stuff, won’t be gone yet.” She sucks in a breath. “But we’re kind of trying to figure out how to do it, and who should go, and where, and all the specifics, but you can just sit this one out if you want to, like, we totally understand.”

 

In an amazing feat of decision making, Michael blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I want to go.”

 

Brooke’s mouth drops open, Christine gasps, and Rich falls off of his stool with a resounding _ smack _ .

 

“You  _ what _ ?” Jeremy is the first to regain his voice.

 

Rich follows, his hair rumpled and shirt askew. “I’m with the furry. What the hell, man?”

 

“I want to help,” he reaffirms, a little more secure in his opinion. “I know about the apocalypse. I should go.”

 

Everyone starts talking at once, the room exploding into noise and pandemonium.

 

“You just watched your family die.”

 

Jenna raises an eyebrow. “Way to be sensitive about it, Chloe.” Chloe shrugs in response.

 

“It’s the truth.”

 

“Chloe’s got a point,” Jake says, “are you sure you’re… stable?”

 

“Alright everyone, let’s calm down for a minute, and see what Michael has to say-” Christine pleads, waving her hands in a desperate attempt to restore order.

 

“You’re not going out there, Michael. You can’t,” Jeremy’s voice is level, almost calm, but he’s clinging to Michael’s arm like a leech.

 

“Everyone, shut up!” The entire room freezes to look at Brooke. She seems to shrink into her mustard yellow cardigan. “You’re all talking, but nobody is listening.”

 

For a moment, nobody responds.

 

Christine clears her throat. “Why don’t we all take some time to think about it,” She glances pointedly at Michael. “We can decide later.”

 

The group seems to exhale collectively.

 

“Good idea, Christine,” Jake affirms. The two simultaneously shift uncomfortably, before exchanging an unreadable look.

 

“Right,” she nods, “soon.”

 

-o-

_ “Alright, then play the g chord... that’s f sharp minor-” Michael laughs warmly as he corrects his brother. “Okay, James, try it.” _

 

_ They’re sitting on beanbags in the basement, James fumbling with his older brother’s guitar. Jeremy and Josie lounge against the wall by the outlet, the former showing Michael’s sister some meme that he’d found earlier that day. Everything is quintessential, lovely, and clouded in a happy haze. _

 

_ Josie chatters on about some girl in her class who can “-draw the most amazing things, I’m being real, her anatomy and shading is perfect, Michael. Oh! She has the most pretty blonde hair-” _

 

_ Michael’s laughing, and Jeremy smiles at him and he swears he can feel his heart swell, and god this kid is going to be the death of him. _

 

_ The sunlight flickers through the window, casting its cheerful glow down upon the quartet. _

 

_ James finally plays the chord right, and then the next. Soon, Josie’s joined in with her own rather creative lyrics, and Jeremy is harmonizing as best he can. Michael admires his family. _

 

_ Josie with her perpetual grin, orange cardigan, and endless enthusiasm. _

 

_ James with his quiet kindness, soft smile, and abundant compassion. _

 

_ And Jeremy, everything about Jeremy. _

 

_ He revels in the familiarity, the pure joy. _

 

_ But then the sunlight dims, and there’s blood trickling down the stairs, seeping towards them. It’s a bright crimson, almost aggressively so. _

_ He reaches for James but he’s gone, and the guitar lies discarded on the floor, smashed into tiny pieces- _

 

_ Josie’s on the floor too, the blood enveloping her body, and all Michael sees is red, red, r _

 

He wakes up. He wishes that he were sleeping again.

 

Maybe at least he’d get to see his brother and sister.

 

-o-

 

“I’m deceased,” Michael decides, laying his head back down onto the refreshingly cool tiles. He’s been here for god knows how long, studying the cracks in the ceiling plaster. He’s trying to decide if the one on the left is in his glasses or the roof.

 

“Why?” Jeremy nudges him with his foot, raising an eyebrow. He’s been sitting against the wall hugging his knees for nearly as long as Michael’s been on the floor.

 

On occasion, the battery powered fan will revive itself to blast warm air for a good minute or so before sputtering out. He wonders if it’d make a good metaphor for himself.

 

“I’ve been eating stale taco shells forever,” he groans. “This is inhumane.”

 

Jeremy snorts. “It’s been a week, Michael.”

 

Michael rolls onto his stomach, propping his head up with his hands to look at Jeremy. “Throw me a nice funeral,” he gasps dramatically, “Tell my family I love them-”

 

Chloe pipes up- “Isn’t your family dead?” and the playful mood drops as fast as Jeremy’s self-esteem did junior year.

 

Michael frowns, regarding her warily. She’s filing her nails intently, perched on a green folding chair. There’s an aura of superiority about her, despite her messy hair and bloodstained clothing. He never did like her much, even after their friend groups merged. He doubts that’ll change with the apocalypse.

 

There’s a scraping noise as Christine pushes open the door to the storeroom that they’ve proclaimed “the sleep room”, or, alternatively “someone’s gonna get laid there at some point, and I hope it’s me” by Rich.

 

“Hey, I think we should do our run today. I have a good feeling about today, do you?” Christine begins. “I mean, I hope it’s a good feeling, actually, it’s kind of a weird stomach thing that may actually just be hunger, but either way I think a run or raid or whatever is a good idea.”

Michael’s immediately interested, pushing himself into a sitting position. He ignores the head rush. Jeremy gives him a concerned glance.

 

Christine wrings her hands together. “I’ve decided who I think should go, if everyone agrees. I think they’ll work well together plus, we need both their knowledge for this and, I should get to it, shouldn’t I? So it’ll be Brooke...”

 

There’s a beat.

 

“...and Michael.” The silence is more than tangible, as in you could probably grab the silence from the air and make, like, Silly Putty from it.

 

There was never this much quiet before… everything. For the first time, he misses it.

 

Jeremy’s staring at him, and Christine’s staring anywhere but at him. There’s a jumble of feelings all fighting to be at the forefront of his brain, shoving each other to the side.

 

“Whatever,” Chloe scoffs. She stands up, her metal folding chair grating against the ground. “Just get me some damn hair ties.”

 

Then, she’s out the door and gone.

 

“Just- meet us out front when you’re ready.” Christine says hesitantly. The door shuts behind her with a click.

 

“Are you gonna go?” Jeremy asks cautiously, standing up as Michael does. He talks like he’s scared that his own words may be wrong.

 

Michael sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, Jer. I have to.”

 

The fan makes a grand re-entrance, punctuating the heavy atmosphere with its tinny whirr.

 

“I should head out,” Michael concludes decisively, clutching the metal handle of the door and pulling it open.

 

“Michael?” Jeremy has a hand on his shoulder, but jolts away when Michael turns his head to look at him.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I… uh, can you just- make it back?” There’s a rush that he gets just hearing that Jeremy wants him, that quickly turns to guilt when he realizes how utterly dependant he is. When did he stop living for himself and start living for his best friend? That wasn’t a good call.

 

“I mean, I was kind of planning on doing that.” Michael reaches out a hand to ruffle Jeremy’s hair. It’s still soft. What the hell.

 

“Damnit Michael, as if the apocalypse hasn’t ruined my looks enough.” Jeremy huffs indignantly, his hands moving to fix his hair in vain.

 

“What looks?” Michael snickers, turning into the hallway with his friend falling into step beside him.

 

“I retract my earlier statement, you can stay out there.” They’re both laughing, albeit a little more strained than before. Soon enough, they’ve reached the dining area.

 

“Yeah, okay buddy.” He stops, giving Jeremy another smile. “See ya.”

 

Jeremy waves awkwardly in response. It’s cute. “See ya.”

 

Michael pushes the poster covered double doors open, wincing as the sun hits his face. “That’s bright,” He shields his eyes with his hands. “...can we turn it down?”

 

“I know right?” Rich responds in his usual unnecessarily aggressive manner. “I’ve been telling Jake that we need to fight the sun for ages, but he just won’t listen.”

 

Michael’s eyes slowly adjust to his new surroundings. Brooke, Jenna, and Christine are huddled in a circle beside the PT Cruiser, discussing something in hushed tones. He feels his eyes water a bit when he remembers that Josie and James helped him pick out the car.

 

_ “An orange one! You have to get an orange one!” _

 

The strip mall that borders the Taco Bell is populated by shambling figures that stumble along the sidewalk without purpose, their arms hanging limply by their torsos. He suddenly wishes that he hadn’t let Jeremy clean his glasses earlier today- Seeing them just makes it all the more real. Luckily, they haven’t noticed the Taco Bell. Yet.

 

He looks back over, and Rich is clutching a pile of twigs. He shrugs when Michael raises an eyebrow questioningly.

 

“Chris was talking about what we might need and went on a tangent about the importance of sticks, man, I’m just as confused as you are.”

 

“Right, Christine needs me, actually.” Michael says. “ So I should probably grab some stuff and go.”

 

As if he’s been shocked into action, Rich suddenly flings the wood to his left, moving at an alarming pace towards the doors. It’s a little unnerving.

 

“Rich? Dude, you okay?”

 

“I totally forgot!” He grins, disappearing into the building. Michael stares at the closed doors, dumbfounded.

 

Not a minute later, Rich hurls the door open again, this time clutching a duffel bag in his hands. He approaches Michael enthusiastically, throwing it out in front of him.

 

“I grabbed some stuff for you from your house,” he explains.

 

“Oh, thanks.”

 

Rich nods in acknowledgement, letting Michael take the bag from him. “I just kind of took whatever man, I hope it’s good enough.”

 

He carefully unzips the blue bag, reaching blindly for the first item. Michael feels like he’s in one of those clickbait-y youtube videos where you’re supposed to guess what you’re touching. The ones with lobsters and dead fish in boxes that people blindly stick their hands into. (Why lobsters? Michael isn’t sure he wants to know.) Rich grins expectantly, which amplifies the feeling tenfold.

 

The first item is a bag of chips, covered in metallic foil packaging. He almost smiles at the familiar label, “Cheese Ring” in a happy yellow. The sun seems less abrasive, now.

 

Then, he remembers how much James used to like the filipino snack. It must show on his face, because Rich’s expression drops.

 

“Sorry dude, I-”

 

“No, no, it’s fine. Just… James used to like these.” His voice cracks. Goddamn it. “It’s… whatever.” Michael sets the food aside. “Let’s move on.”

 

Next, he pulls out a tangle of cloth- mostly random shirts and pants that Rich undoubtedly scooped up at random, if the vibrant pink headband is anything to go by. Josie’s. Fuck, this is painful. He goes for the next object immediately, hoping that he can manage to avoid yet another breakdown.

 

“A camera?” There’s a special sort of relief in knowing that he can’t associate this with any painful memories.

 

“Yeah, I figured you could be that dumbass who films everything in horror movies.” Rich snorts at his own joke, punching Michael in the shoulder playfully. Or, at least, tries for playfully, but it hurts more than Michael’s going to let on.

 

“I’m... flattered.” He turns the camera over in his hands, watching the sunlight dance across the silver surface.

 

“There’s one more thing.”

 

Michael turns the bag upside down and gives it a solid shake, dislodging two objects that tumble to the pavement below. For a second, he just stares. Then-

 

“Are those… heelies?”

 

Rich considers this for a moment before quite eloquently saying: “Oh, fuck, I think so.”

 

“Bright pink heelies.” Michael observes, sufficiently shocked that out of all the shoes he could’ve ended up with in the apocalypse,  _ these _ were the ones.

 

“No judgement, but dude, why do you own bright pink heelies in the first place?” Rich gestures to the shoes. He seems to be a mixture of amused and slightly embarrassed.

 

“My sister bought them for me.”

 

Out of the blue, Rich’s expression turns troubled. “...Josie?”

 

“Nah,” Michael says immediately, scrambling to change the subject off of his dead sibling. “My sister Theresa bought them.”

 

“That’s wife material right there,” Rich snorts, relieved.

 

“...Are you suggesting I marry my sister?”

 

“I’m suggesting _ I _ marry your sister.”

 

“Dude!” Michael nudges Rich’s shoulder, feeling a smile begin to creep back onto his face.

The shorter boy shrugs. “Whatever man, I bet she’s hot.”

 

“What, you’re not in it for her glowing personality?”

 

“Nah dude, I’m-”

 

“Rich!” Jenna’s voice interrupts the conversation. “We need your help.” She’s got a grey backpack on the hood of Chloe’s Lexus, and appears to be packing Taco Bell brand plastic bags into it.

 

Her attention turns to Michael. “You’d better get going, Christine’s not gonna stay talking about the run for much longer.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Jenna sighs. “I  _ mean _ we already had to stop her from going on eight separate tangents, most of them about pasta. Get over there.”

 

Michael shoves most everything back into the duffel bag, leaving the heelies out. The atmosphere is lighter, leaving him with an almost elated feeling. It’s… nice.

 

Then again, he’s also donning fuschia heelies, so he’s not sure if it can be considered a victory.

 

Rich waves goodbye, and Michael takes that as his cue to leave. Stumbling a little as he tries his first attempt at gliding along the pavement, he makes his way out.

 

After an unguided but complete tour of the Taco Bell outdoor premises, Christine remains elusive. He’s not really surprised, if she was distracted frequently before the apocalypse, she’s next to impossible to fixate now. He reluctantly abandons his search, but only after the fourth time that Rich laughs at his footwear as he cruises on past.

 

Brooke seems rather surprised when he heelies back to the PT Cruiser with a wobbly, "Sup-". With legitimate concern, she looks him up and down, then gestures to the passenger seat.  
  
"I am not letting you drive in those."  
  
"Fair enough." He pulls the door open and melts into the passenger seat, propping his feet up on the dashboard.  
  
She perches herself in the driver’s seat, inching it closer to the wheel. The key turns, and the car rumbles to a start, humming familiarly. Brooke is eyeing him suspiciously, averting her gaze whenever he attempts to catch her in the act.  
  
"You okay, Brooke?" There's a sound coming from the engine that resembles shaking a box of shitty mints in a tin can, which, Michael decides, is kind of the least of their worries. He maneuvers his feet to the floor, sitting up in some semblance of decent posture.  
  
"Are you?" She's gripping the steering wheel far too tightly, her knuckles slowly turning paler. The car hasn't even started moving yet.   
  
He almost wants to take a picture, to commemorate the day when Brooke-freakin-Lohst, the second most popular girl in school, was nervous to talk to him.  
  
He shrugs nonchalantly. "Nah." Michael nods towards the road in what he hopes is a friendly but firm manner. His voice trembles. "Let's drive."  
  
A little too eagerly, she steps on the gas pedal, launching them over a curb decorated with now flattened blue flowers. There’s a beat. "Jesus Brooke, if the zombies don't kill me, your driving will."  
  
"Sorry!" She squeaks. The look on her face- a mixture of genuine guilt and surprise- makes him laugh, which in turn makes her laugh, and soon they're both giggling like five year olds.  
  
He's struck by the absurdity of the situation- if you had told him two years ago that he'd be sitting in a car, in the midst of the zombie apocalypse, with one of the most popular girls at Middle Bourough, wearing violently pink heelies, he'd probably have started laughing so hard that he cried. Which, to be fair, is what he's doing currently anyway.

 

“So-” he says after they’re done making fools of themselves. “Where’re we going?”

 

Brooke maneuvers the car back onto the pavement, crushing a few more pretty cyan petals.

 

“The Menlo Park Mall. My parents know the guy- well, knew the guy who ran it. We raided his house yesterday.” She taps a small golden key that dangles from her expensive looking bag, then turns a pale shade of green. “He won’t miss it, Rich bashed his head in pretty badly. He’d already become one of those… things.”

 

“That sucks.”

 

“Yeah, he wasn’t the nicest guy, but I wouldn’t wish that on many people.” Brooke takes a breath, the car making a left out of the parking lot. A few zombies take notice and lumber half-heartedly after them.

 

Michael thinks for a second. “How do we know he locked up? The place might be overrun.”

 

“The mall closed early on the day of the outbreak,” she replies. “He does it every year for his wife’s birthday. The managers of the stores never liked it much, I think.”

 

“That’s suspiciously convenient.”

 

“I know,” Brooke nods her assent.

 

Michael thinks of  _ Apocalypse of the Damned _ . “It’s almost like-”

 

“A trap.” They speak simultaneously, the car swerving to avoid an overturned ice cream truck.

 

“Do you really think it could be?” Brooke bites her lip, clutching the steering wheel a little bit tighter.

 

He thinks about it for a while, but the nervous look on her face decides his answer. “I mean, who would want to hunt two random teenagers? We’re probably fine.”

 

“Yeah,” She nods, “Probably.”

 

Brooke is a surprisingly good driver, though she winces every time they’re forced to dodge another overturned car, or leave some pitiful corpse on the side of the road. Though New Jersey is fairly well populated, it seems to be a ghost town-(ghost state?) after the initial flurry of death and destruction.

 

All too soon, they’re pulling into the mall parking lot. Other than a few cars dotted here and there, mostly late two-thousands-esque mom vans, it’s a wasteland.

 

“Uh, shouldn’t we have weapons or something?” Michael suggests, peering into the back of the car in search of something, anything. He feels like he’s back in  _ Apocalypse of the Damned _ , scavenging for conveniently located weapons with Jeremy- or, well, Brooke currently.

 

“Oh,” She shifts uncomfortably. “We have some knives from the Taco Bell?”

 

She reaches into her purse, pulling out several hand sanitizers and other assorted clutter before- “Here they are!”

 

Brooke hands him a pronged knife with several holes in the blade, which, he reflects, is an interesting aesthetic choice. There’s a name etched in tiny letters at the base of the cutlery, near the handle.

 

“Well,” he sighs, “at least I’ll go down with a twenty dollar Jamie Oliver brand cheese knife.”

 

He looks over at her, only to see that she’s brandishing a notably larger knife with a mahogany colored handle, holding it as if it’s going to come to life and attack her.

 

“Yours is bigger than mine,” Michael says mournfully, turning his gaze back to the rather sad weapon in his hands.

 

“Oh! Well, I just thought since you’re more experienced at this apocalypse thing- but I don’t mind switching, it’s no problem, really!” Brooke rushes, tucking her hair back behind her ear at least four separate times.

 

He shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m sure the power of-” Michael gestures to his knife. “-Jamie Oliver will protect me or whatever.”

 

She giggles. “You’re weird, Michael Mell.”

 

“Yeah.” His stomach twists. This definitely isn’t the first time Brooke’s called him weird, but it’s the first time she’s said it in a nice way. It’s the first time she’s said it like they’re friends. 

 

There’s a pause in which they both seem to sober up. “We should go.”

 

She takes one last nervous glance out of the windshield. “Okay.”

 

Michael throws his door open decisively. He sets his heely-clad feet onto cool pavement, and is immediately struck by the silence of it all- No engines, no chatter, no dogs yapping. It’s above all, kind of uncomfortable. Michael can’t put a finger on why.

 

Brooke opens and closes her car door, and he can see her freeze up as well. Both of them seem to know that somehow, the quiet feels louder than the noise.

 

They half-ponder the weight of the new world while maneuvering through the abandoned parking lot. The concrete is littered with waste and leaves, leaving the pair to hop laughably around the muck.

 

“My heely wheels will get stuck,” He explains to Brooke after nearly face-planting in an attempt to avoid a murky gray pile of trash. She snickers, and responds by flicking an empty chicken nugget carton towards him with her foot. Michael shrieks, batting away the uncomfortably damp cardboard. “I  _ trusted _ you!”

 

“Your mistake.” Brooke has the kind of smile that makes you want to bubble wrap her and protect her from the world, which, Michael decides, is unfair given that he never even really talks to her. She radiates sunshine, and the world seems to get a little bit brighter.

 

Then, all at once, they’re facing the building, the Macy’s storefront looking unexpectedly daunting. The mood goes dark again, remnants of a grin fading from Brooke’s face. The doors are shut and locked, but one of the windows is completely smashed in, which does absolutely nothing to help calm Michael’s anxiety. The broken glass crunches under the heels of Brooke’s boots, and there’s a putrid smell wafting from inside. The two exchange a worried glance.

 

“Someone’s been here,” Michael says. His reflection in the glass looks just as nervous as he feels. Plus, his hair is a mess and there are these horrible dark circles under his eyes-

 

Brooke presses the key into his palm. “Do you want to maybe open the door?” She bites her lip, shifting her eyes from Michael to the dark interior of the store.

 

“No,” he responds sharply, accepting the object nevertheless. When he takes another step forward, the glass cracks under his feet, somehow feeling more ominous than before.

 

Brooke holds her breath.

 

The door clicks as he turns the key, and he pushes it open. A rush of adrenaline flickers up from his stomach, compelling him towards the shadowed interior. There’s a sense of apprehension hanging in the air. It grows like a weed. A weed with strange sonic-the-hedgehog-fast growing abilities.

 

He inhales, glancing to his left almost instinctively before remembering that Jeremy isn’t with them. Instead, Brooke is to his right, looking like she might start regurgitating stale taco shells at any moment. It’s now or never.

 

They step inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not uploading for two months? i know her
> 
> hit us up with your constructive criticism or just straight up roast us we good either way


	4. This Chapter Is Brought To You By: The Middle Borough High School Frisbee Golf Team!

 

Jeremy Heere was horrendously unprepared for the apocalypse. 

 

That was to be expected, of course, given how unprepared he was for most situations, but the past week had only driven the point home. 

 

_ Apocalypse of the Damned  _ had taught him absolutely nothing. There were no cheat codes or second chances in the actual apocalypse. There would be no ‘Play Again?’ option if they died. 

 

What little weaponry they had found within the Taco Bell was pitiful and nothing like the high-tech, easy-to-use guns that were so common in the game. Most of the sharper knives had been stuffed into Brooke’s purse for the mall raid, leaving the rest of the group to lock the doors and pray that they wouldn’t have to defend themselves against the undead with the remaining collection of forks and butter knives. 

 

The posters plastered onto every window and door wouldn’t conceal them forever, and the few lights that still turned on were dim and cracked, leaving the restaurant looking more like a dystopian parody of itself. 

 

(Really, the entire situation felt like it had been ripped from the action packed, post-apocalyptic novel that Jeremy and Michael had tried to write in seventh grade, before they discovered that past and present tense were two very different things that could not be used interchangeably and that writing was probably not either of their strong suits.) 

 

Tucking himself into the corner booth closest to the door, Jeremy let the shadows conceal him from view. He tugged the sleeves of his cardigan over his trembling hands as if it would do something to hide the way that his entire body shook. At least he wasn’t crying anymore. 

 

He should have been helping. With what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Rich was outside with a list of things to do, Jake and Chloe were supposedly cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, and Jenna was helping Christine plot escape routes and raids. All Jeremy knew was that there was probably a variety of things that still needed to be done to help ensure that they all lived another day, something that he could have helped with. Hell, even Michael had been given a job, and theoretically, he should have been in worse shape than Jeremy. It wasn’t Michael that sat in an empty booth, shaking like a leaf and looking close enough to another breakdown that he was being left alone, though. 

 

All in all, he felt pretty useless. Apparently the sentiment was felt by everyone else too, as someone had yet to assign him a task.

 

There were a few pages of some old newspaper stuck to the glass-panelled door, the front page story celebrating  _ “Back to School!” _ overlapping the horoscope page. Jeremy fixed his eyes on it, as if he was challenging it to a staring contest like the ones he always used to lose back in elementary school. He briefly thought back to it, remembering the times that Michael would let him win because he was too jumpy to beat anyone else- a habit that Michael had quickly dropped when the two of them took up video games, much to a younger Jeremy’s disappointment. The memory was almost enough to make him smile.

 

Then, because the world didn’t seem inclined to let Jeremy feel okay for too long, the door swung open and Rich’s tiny frame barrelling into the Taco Bell with a shriek that effectively jolted Jeremy out of his reverie. Not even a full second later, Rich had slammed the door shut, back pressed to the glass, face red, presumably from running. There were a few long seconds of silence, Jeremy’s confused gaze locked onto Rich’s horrified expression. 

 

“Get the forks.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“The forks,” Rich repeated, motioning vaguely towards the kitchen area. “We’ll need them. I might have accidentally given away our location to a few of the zombies in the back lot?” The questioning tone in his voice suggested that he wasn’t sure if he had just pointed the zombies towards six living, breathing meals, but the sheepishness and lingering terror in his eyes told Jeremy otherwise.

 

“You  _ what _ ?” Christine’s voice drifted out of the back room, followed by footsteps and eventually Christine herself, armed with the forks that Rich had requested. “You went back there several times in the past few days without getting caught! Why now, when we’re short two people, would you give us away?”

 

She passed two forks to Jeremy and gave the remaining utensils to Rich, ignoring Jeremy’s weak protests- “Christine, wait, how am I supposed to fight zombies with  _ forks _ , I don’t want to fight  _ anything _ , can we just make sure that none of them get inside-” in favor of listening to Rich’s explanation.

 

“Listen, Chris, I thought the car was empty. It looked empty. The rest of the cars that I checked, they were empty. Man, I was just chilling and stealing shit from cars, how was I supposed to know? If you walked up to a supposedly-abandoned car and found a dead body inside, you would probably have screamed too.” Christine looked wholly unimpressed, but Jeremy had to give her some credit- she didn’t look surprised, either. “Then it sat up and slammed its face into the steering wheel- like, dude what the hell? You might have heard from in here, and it was like a jump scare- you know, the ones that aren’t scary but you scream anyways because it startles you? Like that. Except, it scared the shit out of me.”

 

Jeremy was still staring at the forks in his hand when something thudded against the window, loud and sudden, cutting Rich’s story short. Out of all the noise that immediately followed, Jeremy hadn’t expected the sound of Rich’s forks hitting the floor to stand out in his mind. It was a lot nicer (if that word could still be applied to the situation) than focusing on the screaming, at least. He’d heard enough screaming to last him a lifetime.

 

The assault on the window continued, the dull thumping spurring Christine into action. “Jeremy,” she called, already striding across the floor to one of the tables. “Can you help me move this? Give your forks to Rich- he’s going to stay at the door because I think he’d be the best at actually fighting with our… limited defenses. As for us, we’re going to turn a bunch of tables onto their sides and push them against the window as a second line of defense, in case the glass breaks.” 

 

Jeremy hesitated, unsure if a few tables would be an effective blockade against a zombie, especially if it had already managed to throw itself through a window, but Christine was looking at him expectantly and Rich had already gathered the rest of the forks from the floor. Two consecutive thumps shattered the quiet and oh god he’d been standing there silently for way too long and now he was overthinking, the need to just stop over analyzing every single decision destroying whatever remaining hesitation he still felt. He rushed towards the table the Christine had chosen, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. He barely caught the sympathetic glance that Rich gave him as he handed over the forks. 

 

They successfully tipped the table, one edge resting against the linoleum floor. Christine stood back, hands on her hips as her eyes flicked between the window and the table. 

 

“Okay, now we have to get it over to the window. I think it would be better if we tried to lift it? It’ll be quieter, and it doesn’t look too heavy!” 

 

By some miracle, between Christine’s tiny frame and Jeremy’s minimal arm strength- better than it had been in freshman year, when he couldn’t even do a single push up without his knees on the ground, but still pitifully lacking- they managed to drag the table into position. 

 

There was a new mark on the floor from their attempt to carry it, with Jeremy taking the tabletop side and dropping his end of the table within a few steps. 

 

(Jeremy had winced when it hit the ground, and Rich had chimed in with the suggestion that they just drag it along the floor, brandishing his forks in an awkward superhero pose and reassuring Christine that he was beyond ready to defend them if necessary and possibly even unnecessarily.) 

 

Instead of helping Christine move the rest of the tables, Jeremy was sent to the back room to alert the others. 

 

Jake helped her finish the table barricade.

 

Once every table and most of the chairs had been upturned and Christine had deemed the room sufficiently fortified, the six of them gathered a few of the remaining chairs together in a circle next to the counter. The thuds had slowed, coming less often, but they hadn’t yet ceased. 

 

“Geez,” Chloe remarked, seemingly trying to lighten the mood despite the underlying layer of disgust in her words that could easily have been directed at both the zombies outside and the company she was keeping. “I haven’t seen anything so desperate to get into a room since Jake at his Halloween party.”

 

Jeremy tensed up at the mention of the party. Three feet away, ignoring the chair that Rich had dragged over for her and perched instead on the counter with a handmade napkin-map, he could see Christine frowning. Jake, at least, snickered at the joke, but it sounded strange and out of place in the hushed, uneasy atmosphere of the Taco Bell. 

 

He didn’t want to be next to Chloe anymore. 

 

Pushing himself out of the chair, he joined Christine at the counter, peering over her shoulder at the messy blue scribbles.

 

“It’s the mall,” she explained, tracing the perimeter with one finger. “Jenna and Brooke helped me with it- it’s pretty much just whatever they could remember about the layout. Not that it’s a bad map, obviously- the two of them are there often enough, after all, so we don’t have to worry that it’s inaccurate.”

 

Sitting a few feet away, Jenna nodded in agreement.

 

The blue ink was dark, almost black against the brown fibers of the napkin. Christine’s finger hovered over one of the penned-in entrances. There was a label next to it, scribbled out and too messy to read.

 

“That’s where they should be entering.” She traced a path through the mall, before drawing her way back to the original entrance. “I think they’ll be okay.” Jeremy wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him, or herself, or both of them. “They should be totally fine. Brooke knows her way around the mall, and Michael knows his way around the apocalypse.”

 

Jeremy decided not to dwell on his earlier realization that his and Michael’s top notch zombie-killing skills only existed in  _ Apocalypse of the Damned _ , and just so happened to be very much useless in the real apocalypse.

 

Surprisingly enough, he’d been doing a pretty good job of not worrying about Michael, right up until Christine had brought it up. That being said, he’d been pretty preoccupied with their visitor on the other side of the glass. 

 

There was nothing more that they could do about it the zombies outside, though, unless they wanted to leave the restaurant to kill it and risk attracting more unwanted attention- which, to Rich’s faux disappointment, they had decided was not their preferred plan. 

 

So, essentially, they were sitting ducks in a dark Taco Bell, surrounded by the undead and with no way to contact Brooke and Michael.

 

It really was nothing like Apocalypse of the Damned. 

 

The quiet dragged on, dull thumps and frustrated zombie noises- grunts? Groans? Jeremy couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know- growing less frequent as time passed. No one spoke- under different circumstances, Jeremy might have considered it odd and potentially concerning that both Rich and Christine were silent. 

 

And then, without warning, the noise stopped. It was almost as if they had been thrown into one of the 1920s silent films that Michael’s parents had once convinced them to watch.

 

( “Hey, Jer, buddy, I know we’re short on space but you’re sitting on my foot and it’s starting to fall asleep-”

 

“Hey! I want to sit next to him! Theresa, tell Mike to move so I can sit with Jeremy-”

 

“Shut up, the movie is starting-”

 

“Don’t tell your brother to shut up, that’s not nice-”

 

“Michael, I swear, if you don’t stop trying to tickle me, I  _ will _ go sit with James instead-”

 

The two beanbag chairs in Michael’s basement-bedroom had definitely not been big enough to fit the eight year old twins, a thirteen year old Michael and a ‘twelve and three quarters’ year old Jeremy, and Michael’s eldest sister, a high school senior at the time. That much had been made clear. 

 

Still, they had jostled for space in front of the television, shoving the beanbags together and trying to arrange themselves in a way that allowed them all to fit. It had only been mildly successful.

 

It had been fun, though. They had gotten through the Mells’ entire collection of silent films, with Theresa and Michael exchanging the most ridiculous dialogue that they could come up with, James’ and Jeremy’s laughter interrupting their made-up scenes. Josie had been sprawled across their laps, Jeremy’s hands twirling her hair into a sad attempt at a braid and then up into an even sadder bun that she still insisted he take a picture of, despite Jeremy’s protests. 

 

He wondered if Theresa would still be able to come up with any witty dialogue for their current lives, in all of their silent-film-esque glory. )

 

Jake was the first to break the silence. “Did it give up?” 

 

“I don’t know.” Jenna stood up, motioning for the rest of them to follow suit. “I would suggest getting ready, though, in case it hasn’t. If it breaks the glass, we need to be ready.”

 

The anticipation had Jeremy bouncing lightly on his toes, ready to bolt, which would have been fine, except his legs felt like they were going to give out at any second and everyone else seemed more prepared to fight, not flee. 

 

Rich had distributed his forks, giving two to Chloe and splitting the remaining nine between Jake, Jenna, and himself. Christine was standing now, gripping the back of the chair closest to her. Jeremy had a fleeting thought that the metal legs on the chairs would probably provide them with better protection than a measly collection of silverware.

 

They waited in tense silence, facing the front of the restaurant, completely still- with the exception of Jeremy, who was shaking more than his dad’s shitty car did on gravel roads, and Christine, whose grip on the chair kept shifting in anticipation. 

 

Jeremy wasn’t sure how long they had been waiting, but it had been long enough that he was beginning to hope for the best. Unlikely as it was, the possibility that the zombie had simply left was becoming more plausible by the minute. 

 

Jenna slowly placed her forks on the chair. Jake’s posture relaxed, a fraction of the tension dissipating. 

 

And then they heard it. The telltale scuff of shoes on the floor, coming from the general direction of the counter. For a moment, they all froze, and five pairs of eyes locked on to Jeremy. The shuffling stopped. 

 

“Jake.” Jenna’s voice was hushed, barely above a whisper. She wasn’t looking at Jeremy anymore, her eyes scanning the rest of the room’s occupants and eventually stopping to rest on Jake. “You were the last one out there. Did you close the back door?”

 

Her question was answered by a mostly-intact zombie stumbling out of the kitchen, dark hair matted with blood and one bite-ridden arm hanging limp by its side, lurching towards Jeremy. 

 

He screamed, loud and sudden, scrambling backwards until the edge of the counter was digging uncomfortably into the small of his back. A fork flew past his head, missing its target by a full foot- one of Rich’s forks, probably. 

 

The next fork made its mark, embedding itself in the zombie’s skull with a sound that Jeremy would never forget. The problem there was that, as disoriented as the zombie seemed, it was still very much alive- if that word could still apply- and it wasn’t long before it had gained its bearings, starting towards Jeremy once more. He struggled to pull himself up onto the counter, kicking his foot out as he slid back across the metal surface. The heel of his converse sank into its shoulder, the force of his kick propelling it back enough that he could safely push himself off of the counter. 

 

He eyed the zombie warily as it launched itself at the space he’d just occupied, pitching forward as it collided with the edge of the counter. Behind him, he heard Jake and Christine arguing- trying to make a plan of some sort. A hand wrapped around his arm, Chloe’s chipped red nail polish standing out against the dull blue of his cardigan as she dragged him backwards.

 

The others were clumped together in the center of the Taco Bell, bickering in hushed voices as the zombie struggled to bypass the counter. 

 

“That’s not going to work. These are forks- I can either go for distance or power.”

 

“Aren’t you the star of every single school sports team? We can back you up, keep it distracted-”

 

“This isn’t football.” Jake waved a fork in the zombie’s direction. “Christine, I’m sorry, but I can’t just throw utensils at it until it dies! See, if we had plates, I could take it out in a few minutes, courtesy of the frisbee golf team. But we don’t have plates. We only have- what, ten forks?”

 

“Actually,” Chloe chimed in, her condescending tone unbefitting of someone who had only put minimal effort into their survival, “we had eleven and you just lost two, so there’s only nine now”

 

“Nine forks. Even better. Thanks Chloe.”

 

Jeremy put his hand up, cutting Jake off. “What about a chair?”

 

Christine turned to look at him, and Jeremy gestured towards the few seats that still stood between them and the zombie. “A chair?” 

 

“Um, yeah.” The others seemed to be taking his suggestion seriously, watching him expectantly. “I think it’d be more effective than forks, at least. They’re, uh, bigger and heavier.” 

 

“Are you saying we should use the chair as a battering ram?” Jenna was the first to catch on. 

 

“Yeah, that’s- that’s what I meant. We can use one chair to- to, um, distract it, and another chair to take it out.” Jeremy half expected someone to veto the idea immediately- no one did, though. If anything, they seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate on some grand plan that would effectively kill the zombie while simultaneously solving all of their problems.

 

Jeremy, unfortunately, had no plans beyond hitting the zombie with a chair until it died, which he assumed was the real-life equivalent of button-mashing- an ineffective habit that he’d taken to using whenever he got overrun by zombies in  _ Apocalypse of the Damned _ . 

 

“Is that it?” He tried not to cringe at Chloe’s tone, critical and demeaning, as if she was examining his entire life like the judges on the Food Network cooking competitions that he and his dad used to watch, sitting together on the couch with takeout or leftovers and arguing over who would get eliminated-

 

No. He needed to focus. That meant pushing the worry about his dad’s whereabouts aside to join his worry for Michael and Brooke. Just until the zombie was gone, and then maybe he could ask Rich to try and hook up a makeshift phone charger, or Michael, when he got back, because if Jeremy knew anyone that could charge a phone in the actual zombie apocalypse, it was Michael fucking Mell, but-  _ later _ . Not when everyone was staring at him, and the zombie behind the counter was still trying to clamber over it like Jeremy had done.

 

“Uh. Yeah, that’s all I’ve got.”

 

Thankfully, Rich chose that moment to jump in- “Dude, I’m down for that. I can distract it if Jake goes for the head with another chair.”

 

Rich’s approval, while expected- considering the plan involved charging at the undead with a few weak metal chairs- was apparently enough to get the rest of the group on board. (Or maybe it was more due to the lack of a better plan, but either way, Jeremy wasn’t complaining. His only worry was that it would result in the same thing that his button-mashing usually ended with: death and Michael’s disappointment.)

 

They regrouped around one of the chairs again, and Jeremy listened as Jake and Rich talked over the finer details of the plan- where to aim, where to run, and what to do if it failed. It wasn’t a solid plan by any means- too rushed, and too reckless-but it was the only one that they had. 

 

“Okay, one more time, what’s the plan?” 

 

Rich groaned, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Christine, we’ve been over it a thousand times already, we need to get moving before it figures out that there’s a gap in the counter.” 

 

“You guys will get out of the way,” Jake cut in, pointing at each of the girls and Jeremy and pantomiming pushing them to the edges of the room. “Rich will distract it, and then I’ll sneak up behind it and nail it in the head with a chair.”

 

“Thank you, Jake.” Christine nodded, pushing a chair towards him. It scraped across the floor with a squeak. “Okay. Are we ready?” 

 

“No.” Rich grinned, rolling up his sleeves. A moment later, Jeremy caught him eyeing the zombie and pulling them back down to protect his arms. “But we gotta do it anyway, so let’s go.” 

 

“Alright, on three. Three, two, one…” Jake whispered the words, as if the quiet countdown would help them focus, looking at each of them in turn as he counted. He wondered if Jake was intentionally treating the situation like a sports game or not.

 

“Go.”

 

Jeremy scrambled backwards until the back of his knees hit one of the booth seats, blindly trying to shove himself further back. In the same instant, Rich screamed and charged forward, brandishing a chair held legs-forward. Jeremy was struck with the thought that it was almost like a strange mimicry of medieval jousting, sans the horses and honor. Behind him, Jake was holding his own chair like a lifeline, slowly side-stepping his way around to the back of the zombie.

 

For a moment, it seemed as if the plan was going to work. 

 

And then the zombie lurched sideways, blank gaze locked onto Chloe. Rich’s attempts to recapture its attention did little to deter it, and Chloe’s shrieking only seemed to spur it on even further. 

 

A hand reached out and clung to Chloe’s jacket, dirty fingernails digging into her arm, catching on the fabric when she tried to shove it away. 

 

Jeremy felt tears start to well up in his eyes, because  _ oh god it’s going to kill Chloe, she’s going to die, it’s going to rip her apart right in front of him and he can’t move and Chloe was never really a nice person and she’d always scared the hell out of Jeremy and he was still wary of her after the Halloween party and the lack of a sincere apology and her lack of sincerity in general but she didn’t deserve to die, why couldn’t he move, why couldn’t he help her _ , and then Jake and Rich managed to drag it back. It wasn’t going down without a fight, though- it tore a hole into the sleeve of Chloe’s jacket as it went. 

 

Rich and Jake ditched their plan of distract-and-attack and instead channelled their panic into killing the thing- but was it killing if it was already dead?  Rich was putting his forks to good use, and Jake had broken the leg off of a chair, swinging it like a baseball bat. Jeremy tried not to notice the way that neither of them would look directly at the zombie.

 

Instead, he joined Christine and Jenna in crowding around Chloe, pulling on the torn sleeve until she shrugged the jacket off, all three of them moving in to look at her arm- although Jeremy kept his distance, peering over Jenna’s shoulder. 

 

“I’m fine,” she snapped, smacking Christine’s hands away. No one mentioned the tears streaked across her face, the barely-there tremor in her voice, or the small indents on her arm from the zombie’s fingernails. 

 

Behind them, Jake and Rich had completely destroyed the zombie, to the point it hardly even resembled a person anymore. 

 

Jake coughed, dropping his chair leg. “We’ll take it outside.” He looked distant and unfocused, and Jeremy was worried that he would fall over before he could get the zombie out. Rich, on the other hand, rolled up his sleeves and nudged Jake’s shoulder, studying the disaster on the floor as if he was trying to figure out how to move it.

 

“Come on, Jakey-D, let’s go.” He arranged the zombie so it was more portable, wincing as he hefted it up and tilted his head towards the back door. “We gotta make sure to lock the doors this time.” 

 

Once the remains of their intruder were out of sight, Chloe shoved her way past Jeremy, stalking off towards the back room. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me up when Brooke gets back.” 

 

Jeremy could practically see the gears turning in Christine’s head- go after her, or leave her be? She hadn’t been bitten, though, nor had she been actually scratched, and none of them felt particularly safe approaching her, so Christine and Jenna exchanged a look and let her go. 

 

“Jeremy?” His head jerked to look at Christine. “Do you think you can hunt down some paper towel from the kitchen? We should make sure that bloodstain gets cleaned up before it permanently stains the floor, or someone slips on it.” She pointed towards the floor, and Jeremy followed her arm until he saw the large pool of blood on the ground. 

 

He thought of Jake, eyes clouded, and immediately panicked. “Is that-”

 

“No, none of ours, don’t worry.” She offered him a small, reassuring smile, and he gave her a grateful one in return. “Alright, now go, this blood isn’t going to evaporate all by itself. Oh, and while you’re back there, see if you can find Jake and ask him to bring me whatever cleaning solutions he can find, okay? He was organizing them earlier.” Christine shooed him away with a pat on the back and a gentle push, enlisting Jenna to help her move some of the tables away from the door, their chatter filling the silence behind Jeremy.

 

He wandered into the kitchen area, snagging a mostly-intact roll of paper towel from the countertop. There was a questionable stain near the top of the roll, but considering they were planning on using it mop up blood, Jeremy decided that it was would good enough.

 

His next goal was to find Jake and the cleaning supplies. It was quieter in the back, although Christine’s voice was still audible, the cheerfulness sounding forced but still familiar enough that Jeremy clung to it like a safety vessel. 

 

Jeremy weaved his way through the half-installed appliances, looking for the telltale bright red of his Letterman jacket.

 

He found Jake by the back door, sitting on the floor with Rich crouched next to him, murmuring something to him. There was blood streaked in the exposed portion of his shirt. The door was locked. Jake’s eyes were closed, and he looked so much smaller than Jeremy had ever seen him, knees pulled up to his chest and fingers curled into the sleeves of his jacket. 

 

“Hey.” Jeremy held tight to the roll of paper towel and tugged on the cuffs of his cardigan, feeling like if he was intruding on something important. It was too late to go back, though- Jake cracked an eye open to look at him, and Rich pushed himself to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his knees. 

 

“‘Sup, dude?”

 

“Are you guys okay?” 

 

“Yeah, we’re cool. Jake thinks he might have known her from archery- she’d left the club ages ago, so it took him a couple seconds to recognize that it might have been her, but by that time we were... you know.” Rich made a swinging motion and a weird squelching noise, one hand clasped around an imaginary baseball bat. “He’s sort of shaken up. It’s fine, give us a couple minutes and we’ll be all good again.”

 

“It’s a lot different than running those fuckers over in a shiny, badass sports car,” Jake piped up, startling a laugh out of Jeremy.

 

He opened his mouth to offer some sort of lame consolation, afterwards, but Rich beat him to the punch with a less than subtle change of topic. "Did you need something? Or are the paper towels some sort of weird comfort thing? You know, like- ‘oh, it’s the literal zombie apocalypse but at least I can try and get the bloodstains out of my sweater,’ that kind of thing.” 

 

“Oh, right!” He nodded. “Christine wants- or, well, she was wondering where the cleaning stuff was. She said you were organizing them earlier?” 

 

Rich stared at him for a moment. “Wait, dude, don’t tell me you’re actually trying to get the bloodstains out of your sweater. I mean, I know I’m great at guessing games but-” 

 

“No!” Jeremy cut him off, face flushing in embarrassment as he scrambled to explain. “No. It’s not for me. The stain on the floor from- from that, uh, that- it- the zombie. There’s blood. Um. Chris doesn’t want anyone to slip, and it’s kind of unsettling to look at anyways, so we- or, well, she thought it’d be a good idea to clean it up.”

 

“Oh.” Rich dragged out the word, presumably to give Jake time to respond. 

 

“They’re in the storage room. The sleeping one. I was gonna move them but then.. you know. Something came up.” He shrugged, the movement looking faux-casual in a way that Jeremy didn’t think possible given the current situation. “They’re on the shelf to the left, somewhere near the bottom. Here, I can help you find them.”

 

Jeremy was quick to shake his head, motioning for Jake to sit back down. “Nah. I- I got it. You guys take your time to, uh, recover, and I’ll let Christine know where you are.” 

 

He offered them a small, forced smile, shuffling back into the kitchen before they could argue with him. 

 

He dropped off the paper towels, first, promising to return with some sort of bleach, ducking back into the kitchen and stopping in front of the storage-slash-sleeping room. He was dreading the almost inevitable encounter with Chloe, though. It wasn’t that he disliked her, it was more that he was terrified of her- between the events of the Halloween party and the way she wielded her social status like an executioner at a guillotine, she honest-to-god scared the shit out of Jeremy.

 

Chloe pulled the door open before Jeremy could talk himself through thirty scenarios that all ended with something equal parts horrible and unrealistic, one eyebrow cocked in irritation. 

 

“I can practically feel your fear seeping through the door, Jeremy. You can come in, I’m not going to bite.”

 

His face went red, and he pointed towards the shelf behind her. “I- sorry, um, I just need- uh, bleach or Windex or something.” His voice cracked mid-sentence and he cringed, half expecting her to laugh at him. 

 

She didn’t.

 

She stepped aside to let him in, and his feet scuffed along the floor as he scanned the room. There are cleaning supplies right where Jake had said they would be. Jeremy wasn’t sure which one Christine would want, and he could feel Chloe watching him, so he scooped up the first three bottles he could grab and hoped for the best, ducking his head as he made to leave. 

 

“Jeremy.” Chloe’s voice stopped him, lacking its usual edge but still sharp enough to make him freeze. He risked a glance at her, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “Once you’re done with those, can we talk?” 

 

“Uh--” He faltered, one bottle nearly slipping from his grasp. 

 

“I’m not going to do anything to you. I just want to talk.” 

 

Jeremy knew for a fact that even just talking to Chloe could knock his self-esteem down more than a few pegs- something he, oddly enough, wasn’t too keen on- but he found himself nodding anyways. “Okay. I just- I have to get these to Christine first.” 

 

He lifted one of the bottles, and waited for Chloe to nod before he rushed out to the front area.

 

Christine and Jenna were standing over the drying stain on the floor, conversing quietly about finding a more secure hideout. The loose end of the paper towel roll, now set down on the chair seat, was crumpled and folded, like someone had been fidgeting with it.

 

He caught a few snippets of their conversation before they noticed his approach, pausing to take the bottles from him. 

 

“I, um. There’s more in the storage room if those aren’t good enough.” 

 

Christine gave him a small smile and shook her head, passing two bottles to Jenna and making a grabbing motion towards the paper towels. “These are plenty good enough,” she assured him. “Can you pass me those?” 

 

Jeremy took the roll and tossed it towards her- or, rather, he tossed it in her general direction. She caught with with minimal difficulty, to Jeremy’s relief.

 

“Are- are you sure you don’t need anything else?” He was met with another head shake. “I’m heading back there anyways,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh-- Chloe… wants to talk to me about something, so I can grab something while I’m there?”

 

“Actually,” Jenna cut in, before Christine could dismiss him. “Once you’re done talking to Chloe, can you try and get her back out here? Once the others are back- and they should be back soon- we should discuss what happens next.”

 

Jeremy nodded, and was promptly shooed back to the kitchens- “God help us all if you keep her waiting for too long,” Jenna had added, as he left.

 

Chloe was still leaning against the door when he returned, examining the tear in her jacket sleeve, the rest of the fabric bunched up in her fist.

 

He coughed quietly, and her head jerked up. “You’re back.”

 

“Uh, yeah.” He nodded. Stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and pulled them back out again, clenching them into fists at his sides. “You- you wanted to talk to me?” 

 

He remembered the last time Chloe just wanted to ‘talk’ to him. 

 

He didn’t want to remember the last time Chloe just wanted to talk to him. 

 

She seemed to sense his discomfort and waved him into the room, giving the folding chair a pointed glance- Jeremy wondered if she was feeling as weird about this as he was.

 

Probably not. 

 

As he sat down, he couldn’t help but think that it felt like an interrogation. Except interrogation rooms weren’t just repurposed Taco Bell storerooms, and they didn’t smell like a strange mixture of tacos with the faintest traces of bleach. Or maybe they were- Jeremy had never been interrogated before. Not officially, at least.

 

“Jeremy.” Chloe snapped her fingers in his face, frowning. She was standing in front of him with her arms crossed, which only served to strengthen the feeling of being interrogated. “Pay attention.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

She studied his face, presumably to make sure he wasn’t spacing out again. 

 

“I want to apologize,” she said, eventually. Jeremy tried not to let his surprise show. Judging by Chloe’s sigh, he hadn’t succeeded. “Don’t look too shocked. The zombie was a wake-up call. I’ve done a lot of shit that I shouldn’t be proud of- shit that I’m not proud of, but I can’t undo it. The least I can do is make sure people know I’m sorry for most of it before they- or I- die.”

 

Jeremy nodded. He understood what she was getting at, for the most part. 

 

Chloe cleared her throat, and suddenly she didn’t seem as intimidating. “Starting with you. I owe you a lot more than just an apology for what happened last halloween, but it’s all I can do right now.”

 

Jeremy winced at the memory. She was right, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it. “Chloe-”

 

“Wait. I’m not done.” He shut up. “I don’t expect you to forgive me right off the bat, or at all. I just need you to know that I’m sorry, and I know that it’ll take a lot to make it up to you, but I’m willing to make that effort.”

 

The silence that followed dragged on for a few seconds too long, and Jeremy briefly wondered if Chloe could see him struggling to respond. 

 

“You’re right,” he started, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think I can completely forgive you yet. For- for the party, and for everything before that, too. But I appreciate the apology. It’s a start.” Chloe nodded, and he managed to give her a half-hearted smile. “I… uh, I hope I’ll be able to accept it one day.”

 

The smile she gave him in return was more genuine than most of her smiles. 

 

Despite everything, though, Jeremy could only handle so much time spent alone with Chloe Valentine. 

 

He pushed himself off of the chair, its legs scratching against the floor. “Um. Jenna and Christine are holding a meeting out front. They asked me to let you know.” 

 

Jeremy lingered at the door, holding it open. Chloe made no move to join him, holding up her jacket to inspect it. 

 

“What are you waiting for?” She raised an eyebrow, directing her words at Jeremy without glancing his way. “They asked you to let me know. You did. Job’s done. Now get out- I need to figure out if this is fixable and I can’t do it with you staring at me.”

 

“Right. Uh, sorry.” He let the door shut behind him. 

 

Jenna and Christine were sitting at a booth when he returned, Rich sitting precariously on the edge of the table. Upon closer inspection, Jeremy caught sight of Jake sitting next to Christine, mostly obscured by Rich’s torso. The blood was gone, paper towel roll and cleaners arranged neatly on another table.

 

He slid into the seat next to Jenna and found them playing what Christine has deemed ‘road trip games’ with a stack of napkins, waiting on Michael and Brooke and Chloe.

 

It was nothing like Apocalypse of the Damned, and he was still floundering in how lost he felt, but then Rich pushed the napkin across the table towards Jeremy with a declaration of war and a hastily scribbled tic-tac-toe board, and all he could do was take the pen and settle down to wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year! it's been over two months (sorry) but this fic isn't dead!
> 
> drag us in the comments! (or offer constructive criticism, which is also cool!)

**Author's Note:**

> yo man we have low self esteem and lots of vore jokes  
> (pov changes and tense changes between chapters are dependent on the character narrating!)  
> thank you so much to everyone reading!! we are soaking in the validation like sponges slurp


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